The children gathered around
the crackling fireplace as
Rumple Stein opened his
heavy, leather- bound book.
His voice dropped to a low,
raspy whisper that made the
shadows on the wall seem to
stretch and dance.
"Deep within the Whispering
Woods," he began, "the old
witches brew potions made
of forgotten nightmares."
He leaned forward, his eyes
gleaming in the firelight as
the wind howled outside the
window.
"They command slimy green
goblins that creep into
bedrooms to steal the
laughter of sleeping boys
and girls."
A floorboard creaked in the
hallway, making the children
jump and clutch their
blankets tight.
"But the worst myth of all,"
Rumple Stein hissed, "is the
faceless monster that hides
right under your bed."
He pointed a long, crooked
finger at the youngest boy,
whose eyes were wide with
fright.
"It waits until the room goes
completely black, listening to
the sound of your heartbeat."
With a sudden, loud SLAM of
his book, he smiled and
whispered, "Now, blow out
the candle and go to sleep."
that shrunken head has the angriest eyes, I said.
Is it because he is dead? Because he is dead?
No, that one is Fred. He’s always been mad.
Maybe he’s sad, I suggested, maybe he’s sad.
Fred glared at me and stuck out his tongue.
Another head threw snot my way, not to be outdone.
Why do you keep these? I asked my friend Shay.
They creep me out but keep salesmen away.
spooky girls three went everywhere together
in rain, sleet or snow, any kind of Midwest weather
they were named Hortense, Helena and Holly Heather
Sisters? We were unsure, said my brother, Merriweather.
Almost acting as if cojoined, these three were rather creepy,
If one cried, the other two wailed and got unbelievably weepy.
They liked October, it seemed to be their favorite month of all.
I always got frightened when they appeared in the fall.
They transmogrified out of mushrooms or tree stumps or moss.
Appearing before our eyes, it was weird, said my cousin Hoss.
spooky girls three sometimes put spells on us too.
This is how they banished our friend Linda Sue Lou.
Spooky legends or candy hearts,
which one will get your pulse racing?
Some seek the horror embracing
when the final high speed chase starts.
Others in tune with softer parts
enjoy the rush of slow dancing.
Spooky legends or candy hearts
which one will get your pulse racing?
A black cat or box of sweet-tarts,
which design do like tracing?
Wield the power of replacing
which one for you is off the charts?
Spooky legends or candy hearts?
Hallow's Eve here upon us
A specially eerie full moon spooky night
Not for faint of heart
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
'Tis the season of the spooks!
Don't look into dark corners or nooks.
Laughing pumpkins and witchy hats,
Dancing brooms and flying bats.
Evening teas with Casper and Frankenstein,
Don't look under the bed once the clock strikes nine!
The looming house smelled of stale pumpkin pies,
When I stepped in through the creaking door to distant cries.
The lore said a mistress had waited a century for her lover,
Before drowning herself in the nearby river.
Her portrait still hung over the fireplace,
Her face was veiled in translucent black lace.
Her armchair still rocks deep into the night,
Her footsteps echo down the hallway to the right.
I stare back at myself in the mirror by the withering parlor,
And see a replica of the portrait in drenched clothes, with a sickly pallor.
On the night of Halloween, I see
A place so unnerving, so restricted yet free
Opening the creaky gates, I walk
To sense a creature that wishes to stalk
It takes no specific form and stares
As if it doesn’t understand, doesn’t care
Suddenly, around me, the world turns bright
My vision clears as I gaze upon a strange sight
The world around me has changed, and now
It seems lively instead of lost, I wonder how
I try to turn back to return to my life and find out
The other world has disappeared, and it's because of the cemetery, no doubt
Beyond two tiny
unhinged-gates,
a cobbled path
paves eerie tones.
It guides one through
its labyrinth maze--
of toppled-over
defaced stones.
The specters grace
the weepin' trees,
with prayers--so they too
can rest in peace.
For what lies below
its caved-in slabs--
with wicked weeds
that pricks then stab.
Ghosts' jewelrys, mostly those
of golden round, within each pile
of shredded clothes--attached to
dusty scattered-bones are found.
Illinois haunting
bachelors grove cemetery
white lady sightings
stull cemetery
shes known as gateway to hell
prominent legends
Samhain approaches, the mist falls low,
Where worlds divide and shadows grow.
The veils grow thin, the stars turn pale,
And whispers ride the autumn gale.
The hearth burns dim, the candles gleam,
Each flicker births another dream.
Through silence deep, the spirits wend,
Old blood, old breath, the ages blend.
From hollowed earth to moonlit skies,
The dead return with ancient eyes.
Their laughter dances through the leaves,
Their sorrow sighs where darkness weaves.
In mortal halls, we feel their tread,
A chill that walks beside the dead.
And in the night’s consuming seam,
All that’s left are screams—
to feed the fright, to wake the dream.
An unclear image moved swiftly by
Briefly seen from the corner of my eye.
A rumbling upstairs made my heart pump,
Downstairs in the dark—thump, thump, thump.
This house suddenly seemed to come alive,
The chills enveloped, I pulled my blanket up high.
The movements and sounds—I just heard something fall,
I peeked from my blanket to see the bounce of a ball.
I slunk to the floor and crawled toward the door,
Silent and still, my heart pounding once more.
It just charged down the hall in a wild, playful race—
Then yipped with delight and licked my face!
My puppy at play in the dead of night,
Turns out the scare was no match for his bite.
There once was a man named Rod Serling,
Whose tales were quite frightening and sterling.
Across the airwaves, strange futures he brings,
He'd show you odd truths of all different things.
A woman who was quite a brat,
Was shrunken down and sat on a mat.
By the window, a strange shadow grew,
She'd lost her whole world in a flash and flew.
A doll came to life, what a fright,
In the middle of the dark night.
From the toy box, she slowly did crawl,
She'd come to get revenge on them all.
A man who loved books more than life,
Lost his world and his terrible wife.
His glasses were broken, what a sad end,
He'd been given a life with no one to befriend.
I trusted order in the silent stars,
Each planet moving in its measured arc,
Laws written deep in heaven’s endless vault,
The clockwork firm, unbroken, without fault.
Yet here they whisper of a phantom thread,
Binding two particles though oceans spread,
A flicker here, and there the twin must turn,
No time to travel, nothing left to learn.
I call it “spooky,” though my mind resists,
A ghostly bond that reason still exists.
Cannot be real—yet still, the proofs remain,
Defying distance, mocking Newton’s chain.
If truth be stranger than my heart allows,
The universe may break its sacred vows.
Perhaps the light itself is not enough,
To bind the fabric where the laws grow rough.
And so I wonder—do the stars still know?
That I am not alive.
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