They talked about their future
While making lots of plans,
A kiss here and there
As they walked hand in hand.
After dating for a while,
They decided to make it official,
Even purchasing towels
With their monogrammed initials.
Both met each other’s parents,
In hopes they would see
That he was meant for her
And she was meant for he.
Then while viewing her home videos,
Only her family members had appeared.
He asked why she wasn’t in them,
So she made it perfectly clear—
Giggling rather nervously,
She said, “Oh silly, can’t you see?
That guy you thought to be my brother
Had really once been me.”
He then remarked sadly,
“I totally understand,
Because I was once a woman
Before I became a man.”
There’s a campfire tale
Of a maniac called The Hook,
And some see his reflection
While wading in the brook.
As a kid, he was picked on
During summer camp.
He was locked out of his cabin,
Where it was cold and damp.
Born without a hand
And bullied as a child,
It is said the constant ridicule
Finally drove him wild.
As he grew into a man,
His anger also grew,
Using a hook to replace his hand
And using it on all he knew.
Living near the campgrounds
And running amok,
Now innocent strangers,
Severely being struck.
Some have seen this maniac,
Along with his bloody hook,
Standing near the area
As he stands on and looks.
Dead or alive,
He appears where campers are.
But one thing for sure,
He’s never very far!
I once saw ghostly gatherings
In the cemetery at night—
Sinister looking figures
That emanate with light.
Some creep around
While others flitter away,
Some venture out
And go their own way.
The ones that stay and haunt
Are drawn to certain places,
Terrifying many with their
Strange ghostly faces.
Speaking to the living
While they moan and groan,
Reminding those they haunt
They’re never quite alone.
Those that stay behind
Sometimes shed tears,
Recalling certain events
And those they hold dear.
Energy passing through
Like an icy breeze,
Leaving some frightened
And others at ease.
Weaving in and out of grave sites
With strange colorful sparks—
Misty looking shadows
Against the night so dark.
Living nearby
I never get too close,
For one can never be too careful
When dealing with a ghost!
Fifteen-year-old Chelsea
Had been warned about hitching rides,
Yet when a car would pull over
She would always get inside.
Unafraid of taking risks,
And putting herself in danger,
By allowing her trust to be put in the hands
Of complete and total strangers.
However, this was an experience,
Like no other before,
From the moment she accepted
This ride and closed the car door.
Chelsea said, “Hello,”
Yet the driver didn’t reply.
She began to question herself
And why she had accepted this ride.
The driver was wearing a hoodie,
Making it difficult to see the face—
Then stepping on the gas
Like on a high-speed chase.
Chelsea became alarmed
And tried to break the ice
By commenting on the car,
Saying it was very nice.
The driver was so strange,
Whether it was a woman or a man,
And the unusual behavior
She couldn’t understand.
“You can let me off right here!”
Chelsea had exclaimed.
The driver finally speaking, replied,
“Not until you know my name.”
The voice had startled her,
For it was exactly like her own,
And now more than ever
She wished she had stayed home.
When the frightened Chelsea said,
“My house is nearby,”
Pretending it was up ahead.
The driver then pulled over,
Exclaiming, “Oh, what a shame!
No need to be afraid of me,
When we are one in the same.”
Chelsea couldn’t believe
That it was herself she was looking at.
This doppelganger voice and face
Had been just exact.
The doppelganger then said,
Before Chelsea dashed out of the car,
“If you ever need a lift again,
I’ll know just where you are!”
Now completely overwhelmed,
To say the very least,
This image she was looking at
Had really been a beast!
It said it came as a doppelganger,
Just one of its many names,
And now they were kindred spirits—
One in the same.
There are little gray guys
With big dark eyes.
They pose as aliens,
But it’s all a disguise.
Their true identity is more
Than one can take in.
You can’t imagine where they come from
Or where they have been.
It’s of a spiritual nature
And so their power is great,
And to let your guard down
Would be a big mistake.
They study human nature
To the very extreme,
And go against one’s will
By invading human beings.
And the alien encounters
That claim to come from outer space
Are not extraterrestrial,
But from a supernatural place.
The alien aircraft,
And the different colors of light,
The UFOs seen
Day and night—
It’s all a disguise
That takes on many forms,
For this is how the grays
Came to be born.
They come in a way
That will make some believe,
And if you’re gullible enough,
They will surely deceive.
And if they are harmless,
Then why abduct and paralyze?
Because they stem from their true leader—
The father of lies!
Magic, the magician,
Places a hand to his ear
While reading minds,
With each thought he can hear.
Astonishing many
With all he can do,
And leaving some speechless
With all that he knew.
Wearing coattails
And a formal top hat,
Preferably dressed
All in black.
A middle-aged man,
Intense and reserved,
Who pulls off each performance
By those that observe.
Handy with his
Small bag of tricks,
To baffle and mystify
While he gets his kicks.
The sound of a drum roll
Then the spotlight on stage,
Providing entertainment
That’s sure to amaze!
Bringing up those
Who willingly volunteer,
By proving that magic
Is not all smoke and mirrors.
His ability to levitate
Up from the ground
Can make one gasp
And remain astound!
Submerged in a water tank
That’s tightly confined,
Escaping his death
In the nick of time.
Escape artist and illusionist,
Known to trick the mind—
Yet never an explanation
That one can ever find.
To say Malcolm was conceited
Was an understatement.
He was vain and arrogant
And could be rather blunt.
So obsessed with himself
And always looking in the mirror,
When this other image
Started to appear.
Even when passing a glass window
His reflection started to change,
His mannerisms different
Until nothing was the same.
What he had once admired
Became ugly and mean,
And the ego he was feeding
Was now being seen.
Now this alter ego,
A full-grown entity,
Came from out of the mirror,
His reflection had taken on
A life of its own,
And the mirror—a porthole
Into the unknown.
Completely unaware,
And caught by surprise,
When this evil image
Called out from inside!
From out of the mirror,
It reached for Malcolm’s arm,
Grabbing him senseless
With intent to do harm!
Malcolm fought hard
To loosen its grip,
The image relentless
As it tore and ripped.
With a piece of sleeve
In the entity’s hand,
Malcolm was struggling
To understand,
This separate self
That broke away,
Now out of control
And wanting its way.
This force in the mirror
Was so much stronger.
Malcolm, now weak,
Could fight no longer.
However, the image
Didn’t stop there;
It took a hold
Of Malcolm by the hair.
Now pulling him into
This looking glass,
And taking over
At long last!
And Malcolm remains
Ever near,
Looking for an escape
From out of the mirror.
The goatman is a creature
That lives high up in the hills,
And the sound when he cries out
Gives a gut-wrenching chill.
With the mind of a man
And the instincts of a goat,
He remains a strange mystery
Living hidden and remote.
Meeting up with this beast
Was more than I could stand.
He struck very quickly
With the force of his powerful hand.
I could hear kicking and snorting,
As if a bull were ready to charge.
He stood up on two legs,
Was very muscular and his arms quite large.
His goat-striped eyes,
Looking down upon his prey,
He made it very clear
That I had better stay away.
It felt like I had been hit
With a huge paper weight,
Overcome with fear,
And this creature filled with hate.
I knew he could have easily
Left me for dead,
Or with some bad scratches
And bruises to the head.
He then leaped on all fours
From hill to hill
With effortless speed,
As if out for the kill.
I could never get over
What I had just seen—
This half animal and
Half human being!
So take caution if you go exploring
High up in the hills.
You may hear a distant cry
And feel a sudden chill.
Bolt out of there
Just as fast as you can,
Because you’ll never outrun
The wild goatman!
From when I was eight,
I can still recall,
Those unknown footsteps
From down the hall.
So unfamiliar
They were to me—
Something I did not
care to see!
Lying in bed
And hearing them come,
Like the steady beat
Of a distant drum.
Closer and closer
To my room,
I felt its presence
Filled with doom.
Those solid footsteps
That posed such a threat,
A scary encounter
About to be met.
Frozen with fear,
I tried to shout;
I opened my mouth,
Yet nothing came out!
It started to approach
The foot of my bed—
My body stiffened;
I couldn’t move my head!
I could only feel
The weight of its stare—
This mysterious phantom
Just standing there.
I then pretended
To be asleep,
My heart pounding faster
With every beat.
Impatiently,
It shook my bed.
Did it come from
The living or the dead?
To open my eyes
Would have been a mistake,
Something I know
My heart couldn’t take.
Then finally came
The morning light.
But whose footsteps were those
In the night?
Sherman was determined
To take on a bet,
Something he would later
Live to regret.
Dared by the owner
To stay in his haunted mansion,
Said to be inhabited
By a strange demonic phantom.
The bet was for a thousand dollars
For each night he would stay.
His wife tried to discourage him,
So he would keep away.
The mansion was elaborate in detail
And beautiful inside,
Yet empty and neglected,
Leaving Sherman to wonder why.
The owner, Mr. Henshaw,
Had lived in this magnificent place,
But fled when encountering this phantom
And its unforgettable face!
Sherman had doubted
Mr. Henshaw all along,
And was determined to prove
That this man was wrong.
There was no turning back now
Once he accepted the dare,
And nothing could prepare him
For what dwelled in there.
Sherman had just started
To settle in,
When many strange voices
Began speaking to him.
He thought that the whole thing
Could just be a joke,
Set up by ow
ner
To try and stage a hoax.
After all, he thought,
It was Henshaw who placed the bet,
And now he’s probably waiting
To come and collect.
Sherman lay on the antique couch
With hopes of getting some sleep,
Now comfortable and snug
Until something nudged his feet.
He pointed his flashlight downward
To a pair of yellow eyes,
Then it leapt in the air
And circled him in flight.
The face was like a man
With the body of a snake.
Its long forked tongue
Had licked him across the face!
Sherman cried out in terror
As it slithered on the floor.
This strange demonic phantom
Then began to roar.
It then spoke in many languages,
Which had been the final straw—
Sherman scrambled to his feet
With many stumbles and falls.
Sherman jumped out the nearest window
Without thinking twice,
Wishing he had believed in the owner
And had taken his wife’s advice!
Lenore was a young girl,
Young and naïve,
Introduced to a dark side
By those who deceive.
Rebellious and insecure,
She trusted so-called friends,
Not knowing that her young life
Would soon come to an end.
She had joined a coven of witches
For power and success,
In exchange for her soul—
A spiritual death.
There had been a ritual
And her, the sacrifice;
The weapon used
Was a razor-sharp knife.
She was buried alongside
This most unusual tree,
And now there’s an image
For all to see.
There were many ceremonies
That had taken place there,
And a scary feeling
That lingered in the air.
The face of Lenore
Projecting from the wood,
The eyes haunting
And misunderstood.
Those that have seen this
Have felt a cold wind,
Circling around them
And closing one in.
Enveloped in a strange
Kind of power,
That always takes place
At the witching hour.
The tree branches outstretched,
As if to grab,
With jagged edges