Grave Images, Vol. I Read online

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.

  There had been a dead silence

  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
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  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,

  Anxious to be free.

  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