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!