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this is a true story about a spirit or spirits
he
or maybe she
or possibly both
or possibly more
let me know from time to time
that he, she or they are still here
I have heard many voices and seen many things
since I began recording them
it's as if I am sitting at the doorway to a meeting room
a meeting room of spirits
and this meeting room is in my home
I have filmed them...streams of orbs moving briskly
like a crowd at a rock concert hurrying to their seats
before the first song
one...a young male
I believe his name is Arthur
called my name as he passed over my head during a spirit box session
'Thomas'
he apparently was not happy being caught on camera
because within seconds of sending a copy of the video to a friend
a can of Lysol was thrown from underneath my bathroom sink against the wall
and my spirit box no longer functioned
this was 3 years ago
and they still let me know they are here
from time to time
in their various ways
I consider them my friends
I have yet to be harmed or frightened
I just think I noticed them
and they noticed that I noticed them

(last line borrowed from 'The Mothman Prophecies')
there's a place called the Lowe
the Lowe Hotel
100 plus years of souls
passing in the halls
leaning against the walls
that view the Ohio River
in its majesty
the Lowe
where stories were born
and still thrive
the room breathes
and crackles with sound as I sleep
whispers...taps...creaks
they are my connection
and I theirs...
window to the living
there are no years
no time or space to measure

'We get you' she said
in a voice as clear as crystal
and as close as dead can be to the living
after my one night stay
Lily Priest Nov 2023
In every sense I'm a spirit
Slipped of human substance,
Settled like dust
On all this that must
Have once given me life.
My souls slipped my skin
And now all is haunting,
Lingering
And not letting go.
Francie Lynch Oct 2023
Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.

But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.

It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.

Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.

Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.

They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften  stools.

They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.

They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.

The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”

The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.

They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.

When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.

They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.
Wrote this for my twin grandaughters, Brig and Ophelia. Ciaran is my grandson. The girls hate spiders. Probably moreso now.
In the depths of the night, where shadows creep,
Lie tales of darkness, so hauntingly deep.
A moon cloaked in mist, a chilling wind's wail,
Where spirits awaken, and courage may fail.

Beneath gnarled trees, a graveyard awakes,
Where restless souls wander, their rest at stake.
With hollowed eyes and whispers of despair,
They yearn for release from their eternal snare.

Amongst the tombstones, a figure does tread,
A specter in black, with a cloak like the dead.
Her name is Lilith, the mistress of fright,
With a wicked grin, she conjures the night.

"Oh! Hear my call," she whispers in the dark,
As she weaves her spells, leaving her mark.
Bats take to the sky, their wings spread wide,
Guiding lost souls, to the other side.

In the haunted manor, spirits do dwell,
Where echoes of laughter turn into a knell.
Ghostly footsteps echo down the hall,
As the present and past collide and enthrall.

The clock strikes midnight, the hour of dread,
When the veil between worlds grows thin, it is said.
Ghosts emerge from their slumber, seeking release,
Their ethereal presence, a haunting caprice.

In the flickering candlelight, shadows dance,
As witches gather, their potions enhance.
With cauldrons bubbling and spells on their lips,
They conjure enchantments, with mystical quips.

Oh! Beware the night, when the jack-o'-lanterns glow,
And spirits arise from the depths below.
For Halloween's magic, a captivating lure,
Where darkness and mystery forever endure.

So, as the moon rises, casting an eerie glow,
Embrace the enchantment, let your fears go.
For on this haunted eve, when the spirits unite,
We celebrate Halloween, in the shadows of night.

But tread carefully, for darkness is near,
And the spirits are watching, with ghoulish cheer.
Enjoy the thrill, the *****, and the fright,
On this chilling Halloween night.
hyun Oct 2023
when the sand fills,
and the hands of time
caresses you into submission,
freedom feels a little too
overrated a concept.

we are puppets
dangling at the side
of a building, waiting to
be taken off the clothesline
or by the wind—
both of which we know
we'd gladly take just
to end the discussion.

i am a firm believer
in whispers.
small talk isn't
too small for me.
i hold my words too close
to my chest i barely breathe
without them.

so now, as my eyes fail me,
i wish time will be so
kind enough to tell me
how all of this ends.
i do not want to suffer
more than i already do—
and i do not need
another lesson on how to
survive in this
god-forsaken life.
yet everyone feels
compelled to
give me one anyway.
FunSlower Oct 2023
Old ghosts are chasing me through the dark.
I thought eighteen years was enough.

I need to be free.

There is an old ghost
In the back of your mouth.
The death rattle of silver, screaming
Let me out!

There is a darkness
Deep in the ground.
An old town with a
Sad new secret now.

I know we’ll never have it all,
But it’s enough for me.
And I know we’ll never have it all worked out,
But we’ll figure it out as we go.
Sad
New
Secret
Unpolished Ink Oct 2023
I see you
Laird of Tanera Mòr
shaded scotsman
misty on the dock
I hear your skirling pipes
threading salted air
silent sound which cuts
and tops each bouncing wave
music on the bridge
between the living and the grave
I saw it with my own eyes
Rosie Oct 2023
You linger like a ghost
between the lyrics I can't stop listening to,
Like that black dress I refuse to get rid of
covered in cobwebs and dust from the darkest part of my heart.

I'm so haunted by the mistakes I've made
these memories bury me in a graveyard of pain,
It'd be healthier, I know, if I'd just let this all go
but I'll just have to reap what I've sowed.

And though my hands shake and my forearms ache
the pain helps me understand the worth in it

It has to be worth it.

Or what's the point of surviving this ****?
They never truly leave you.
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