Horror Poetry
Suspendery
In the depths of the woods, where nothing good goes
A twisted tree, gnarled and ancient, grows
Its spindly boughs reach out, like arms
To bear the weight of its eerie charms
For the rotten limbs of this forsaken tree
Are the purpose of the Suspendery;
Here hang things that twirl and spin
That rock and twist; that spit and grin
Here a bloodied horse tail whips
Frowning beneath, a brace of lips
See over there: that shred of lace?
That mourning veil still hides a face
A withered nerve rotates an eyeball
Like some gory Christmas bauble
And over there, a wreath of hands
Makes signs that no one understands
Bunting, made from blackened hide,
Strings tinsel-like all round the side
Whilst down the trunk in dark, wet trails
Blood oozes like the slime of snails
There is a fence of teeth and bones
A gate of skulls, a bell of moans
A ‘Welcome’ sign, with the ‘L’ scratched out
A warning to the wise? Or word to the devout?
Yet no one knows who visits this spot
Who hangs the offerings; who leaves to rot
The flesh of the dead, the parts of the defiled;
Who glories in what should be reviled
All you will discover, should you be fool enough to go
Are words clawed into the bark, many moons ago:
“You are come to the Suspendery; weary traveller, bear in mind;
That ere you go from this place, you leave part of you behind…”
S P Oldham
The Wanderer in the Woods.
Curtains of October mist hang in the musty air Thick on the ground, cold to the touch, heavy with despair Underfoot, the earth is damp, each spongy step a chore Moisture clings; it climbs and seeps into each unguarded pore
Is he lost? This errant soul, who wanders through the wood? Is he lost? Or does he seek out that which bodes no good? The way ahead is veiled; unclear, its mysteries enshrouded Hidden, but beguiling yet, all rhyme and reason clouded
All at once, the curtains part, the grey light lifts a shade In the clearing in the woods, there stands a leafy glade The wanderer, against all reason, steps into the space A hundred floating spider webs drift across his face
It does not teem with myriad life, there’s no disturbed intrusion No moths ascend, no birds take flight in avian confusion Here, a certain stillness lies, like frost upon the ground Though nothing here is caked in white; no frozen atom found
In the centre of it all, a mound of blackest soil Rises up to draw his eye like a fetid, festering boil Amongst it, creatures writhe and squirm, they burrow out of sight Beetles dig, worms devour, bugs collide and fight
There is no headstone to discern, no inscription to be read No chiselled words in memory of the dear departed dead The wanderer draws in a breath, no longer sure or brave He had not thought to come so soon upon the lonely grave
The ground now hard beneath his feet, the man goes closer yet Falls to his knees, bows his head, his eyes shining and wet Fancies he hears a heartbeat, low, subdued, in his head Reaches out to rest his hand upon the earthen bed
There comes a pulse to match his own, a tremor rocks his hand It grows in strength with every beat, he begins to understand He sinks his hand deep in the soil, crushing creatures with the pressure Something below pushes back, the earth moves; creates a fissure
A waft of smoke and steam issues; sulphur shaded brown Fingers meet his, they grasp his own, to pull him firmly down Too late he recalls the pointed nails, the cruel hand that grips his skin Too late he remembers the sharp, bared teeth behind the wicked grin
‘You took your time,’ her dry voice rasps, full of bitter spite ‘Better late than never. Now we can put things right. You left me to face my fate; you were always weak and scared No matter: now you face it too, and this time will not be spared.’
Her grip tightens about his throat, he feels himself begin to smother And with his last breath, the wanderer pleads;
“But I came to find you, Mother."
S P Oldham
Desperandum
The doors are locked and bolted, the shutters all made fast Not even the soughing wind can persuade its cold way past The house is made all darkness, each candle flame snuffed out But for the candles in the parlour, casting shadows all about
The cat curled on the cushion is not asleep, as you might think It has an amber eye wide open; it gives a languid wink To the figure by the fireplace, seated patiently as fate As dry-eyed and as brittle as the kindling in the grate
There is a rattling at the windows, the shutters hold their own An unseen nail rakes the wood, there comes a mournful moan Shadows flit by unbidden, but the figure does not stir; The cat stretches out its spiteful nails, gives a muted purr
There comes at once a knocking, insistent at the pane The moan becomes a wailing screech; a soul in dreadful pain It worries at one window; shifts to seek passage elsewhere There is a moment’s respite; then a footfall on the stair
In the chair beside the fire, the figure gives a blackened smile To show not fleeting happiness, but intent to defile Spirits, urgent at the window, pull the shutters free Claw flatly at the slickened glass; hammer uselessly
The parlour door swings open wide, a draught comes sweeping in The witch’s rictus widens into a malformed grin There is a sound of sobbing; of helpless, lost despair It comes as if from distance, though it fills the cold night air
The candles gutter; threatening to die a violent death Caught as they are suddenly, in a gale of rotten breath The house, besieged, joins the fray; its’ old frame bends and creaks But all falls still and silent, when at last the old crone speaks
“There is no use you beating or pounding at my door; Nothing to be gained from dragging chains across my floor Curse you for being unwary! You should have learned to look about; For now that I have you here, I shall never let you out!”
Silence falls heavily; sharp and hard as the headsman’s axe But there is no solace offered here; no pretence at pax The witch settles by the fire again; the cat coils and sleeps As they slink away, defeated; those captured souls she keeps…
S.P. Oldham
Ode to October
Came across another old poem of mine, published in Gold Dust Magazine of Literature and the Arts Calendar 2007. Very appropriate since it was written for the month of October. A bit different to my usual style. I was obviously in pensive mood when I wrote this! The accompanying photograph was taken by Karen Inskip-Hayward.
Ode to October
October dripped in; dribbled in
Like a new-born season, or an old one
Crept in; like some furtive monk
Cowled and shadowed, all secrets lost
Dead and alive; a Voodoo month
A constant dusk or a haunted felon
Dreary and crouched, dreading discovery
Worn down with the approach of winter
The saturated air too heavy for mists
The sodden ground too replete to care
You stood in the shaded margins, cloaked and grey
But I saw you, October; I recognised your hand
S P Oldham
The Ghost House
It stood on Burford Road, set a little back
Half-hidden by hedges but not off-the-beaten-track
It had a wooden five bar gate and a gravelled drive
and windows that stared at you as if it was alive
Its red-tiled roof had darkened and begun to slide;
People swore they saw strange shadows flit inside,
Though the house was long since empty, left to rot and die
Like the face seen at the window by some luckless passer-by
All the children relished the scary stories told
About the Haunted House that was ever dark and cold
Even the adults gave a shiver, pulled their collars close
As they passed it by, sitting brooding and morose
They miss it now it’s gone, taking its spirits with it too
The road is bland and boring, the houses dull and new
It had character, charisma, a charm-all of its own
With its wooden five-bar gate and its hedges overgrown.
S. P. Oldham.
This was first published as introductory poem in 2012 in Frightening Fables and Freaky Fairy Tales - http://www.scribd.com/doc/34729110/Frightening-Fables-and-Freaky-Fairy-Tales-Anthology
It’s right to warn you, gentle reader, before you turn another leaf,
that these tales will entice you, but they are tales of grief.
These stories will enthral you, though you yearn to look away,
they will have you jump at shadows in the middle of the day.
These tales are not for children, they are not simple, fabled guides;
they will lead you just to horror, and churn your cold insides.
For the once imagined faces you first saw when you were small,
and the dreamed of far-off places that were home to them all,
become the faces of your nightmares, the places of your dread,
and the good and kind and innocent, the rancid, rotting dead.
The woods are dark and shadowed; the sun is weak and hidden,
the world is cursed, the folk are worse, their morals are a midden.
So take heed, if you will, and turn back now while you may,
or else move on and luck be with you, if even luck dares stay.
S P Oldham