#horrorandfantasy

[scatteredthoughts2]

Ghost Lady.

I saw you on the stairs last night,

Translucent in the pale moon light,

You looked so lost and so alone,

As you wandered round your stately home.

Everywhere the moonlight fell,

Was painted in a ghostly spell,

Your silver gown, your golden hair,

All seemed so real, but you were not there.

I felt no fear, no none at all,

When you left the stairs and walked down the hall,

To the room where you would meet your death,

And it filled my heart with deep regret.

But there was nothing I could do;

The past was waiting there for you,

And every night when the moon is high,

You must go into that room and die.

©Ambrose Harte

©Scattered Thoughts

[gustaffo-vargas]

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[gustaffo-vargas]

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[scatteredthoughts2]

The Night of the Living Dead.

The house is strangely silent;

even the ghosts are haunting quiet,

Outside; the storm is fierce and violent,

but it's noise is part of this haunting night.

We speak in whispers, we are filled with fear,

of all things dead that lurk around,

Daemons that should not be here,

that should be sleeping beneath the ground.

Headstones torn like rotten teeth,

and bloody gums with torn out roots,

The rancid stench of rotten meat,

as the dead seek out forbidden fruits.

We huddle round the blazing fire,

as the wind roars round the chimney breast,

Outside the storm is screaming higher,

as the dead crawl from their reeking nests.

We pray the dead will keep on shambling,

we pray that they will pass us by,

We pray they'll find some gypsies rambling,

We pray to hear the gypsies cry.

And, if we live to see the day,

if we're still alive when this night is o'er,

Then we'll know that God has heard us pray,

And we'll be alright for one year more.

©Ambrose Harte

©Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

DRACULA AND HIS BRIDES.

I am waiting for the sunset,

I am waiting for the night,

Because though I live, I live in death,

And I can't abide the light.

When the final rays of sunshine,

Have dipped below the trees,

Then the night will all be mine,

To do with as I please.

I will leave my old pine bed,

Lined with satin, lace and silk,

For I am the Living Dead,

And the living's blood I'll milk.

Sometimes I like to hunt them down,

I love the thrill of giving chase,

Through forest, fields and even town,

I love the terror on their face.

And when the hunt is done,

And hot blood runs through my veins,

I will play with them for fun,

And make porridge of their brains.

Then to my castle I retire,

Where my brides all wait for me,

And their veins will fill with fire,

When I let my blood run free.

Then we step down to our Keep,

To our beds of silk and lace,

And like the dead we soundly sleep,

In our haunted, curse'd place.

©Ambrose Harte

©Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

Night Terrors.

The days are slow and just drag by;

With their endless chores and tasks,

And no one knows if I smile or cry,

Behind this stupid mask.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner,

In that order every day,

And though I know it keeps repeating,

I still pray the day will stay.

For I dread the tortured nights,

And the terrors that they bring,

And to always live in day time,

I would give up everything.

For once the sun goes down,

And the moonlight fills my room,

The shadows dance around me,

Singing of approaching doom.

And each second is an hour,

And each hour is a day,

And the night goes on forever,

As the shadows dance and play.

©Ambrose Harte

©Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

Strange Whispers.

-----------------------

There are secrets waiting in this ghostly place,

A hint, a clue, the faintest trace,

Of happenings, of lives before,

Of secrets buried, beneath the floor.

-----------------------

Hear the voices in the cobwebbed halls,

The wandering spirit's, whispered calls,

Repeating tales of grief and woe,

Tragedies, from so long ago.

-----------------------

Ancient lives, lived in brick and stone,

The ghosts of those who died alone,

The very walls have tales to tell,

From the attic dust, to the basement well.

------------------------

To the silence, you must lend your ear,

If of these ghosts, you wish to hear,

And sometimes, when the night is still,

Your heart will feel, their ghostly chill.

------------------------

Ambrose Harte

Scattered Thoughts