Ghost Stories
The days drew towards winter
as the waning sun retired
Autumn’s chill, with bitter breath
drove them closer to the fire
In velvet darkness, Night embraced
they had to heed its call
It held them strong and fast
in its dim, nocturnal thrall
The fire’s eerie glow,
upon their faces, shadows cast
Ghoulish and surreal, they looked
telling tales of All-Saint’s past
The teller told his tale,
eyes filled with devious intent
Overcome by the sinister magic
that the story darkly lent
Helpless victims, the listeners became
as they watched him madly leer
Weaving sanguine threads into their hearts,
their minds, saturated in fear
A church bell tolls in the distance,
its reverberations, ethereal
It wakes them from their stupor,
from the spell, so funereal
But it has only just begun,
for the bell tolls twelve-fold.
The witching hour is upon them
with more stories to be told!
Copyright © Shelley Moore | Year Posted 2015
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