You must know,
So you shake the ball,
Hoping for some foresight,
Some validation,
But that little porthole offers little,
Only half-truths and vagueries,
There is noise within,
It emanates from the internals of the orb,
Malignant laughter,
Padlocks and chains,
Sloshing with answers unsaid,
Mockery in every movement,
It knows all,
Everything kept in those inky waters,
But it’ll never elaborate,
It enjoys the secrecy,
Many say the ball is a plaything,
But it easily toys with us.
Come child,
The pain is finally at an end,
You’ve reached the crossroads,
It’s a celebration of the dead this day,
And there’s rumbullion and tobacco aplenty,
So come join the party,
No RSVP or heartbeat needed,
Our vodou host is here,
See his top hat and skeletal face,
The outrageous Baron Samedi,
He appears a corpse ready for the dirt,
But he throws a hell of a party,
So dance the jig with the other spirits,
No mourners required,
Our parade shall never get dull,
And our cups shall never grow dry,
The Baron leads the procession onwards,
The revels can go on forever,
In the afterlife.
Roll up,
Come in please,
Welcome to our museum of the occult,
We hold all manner of oddities,
Relics of the other side,
Like this here unsettling portrait,
Dark scrolls and dimensional mirrors,
And like this Raggedy Ann,
I didn’t hear any giggling,
No wooden footsteps either,
Are you sure?
Don’t mind the doll,
I don’t think she likes you,
But she’s well-behaved most of the time,
Well there was this one incident,
She roams about at times,
This is no typical plaything,
Possessed?
Oh maybe,
You feel breathing next to your ear?
Where’s the doll?
Her glass cabinet lies empty.
In life,
She had been maltreated,
Abused and beaten,
Betrayed and scarred,
Cruelly slain for another by her husband,
A sakura petal singed by life,
But she came back,
Revenge being an ironclad anchor,
She walks the world again,
Animated by rancor,
Snow white skin,
Black hair like a frayed funeral veil,
Draped in ivory kimono,
That which began as hatred for a husband,
Is now hate for life itself,
She’s no longer finical on her victims,
She’s now a dark spirit,
They say she stops hearts,
She will find you,
Crawling from under the bed,
Bones cracking and rasping breaths,
Eyes wide with spite,
Her breathless stare shall be your last sight,
And her vengeance be done.
Welcome to my ordinary bedroom,
Such as it is,
It’s not much but it’s home,
It’s not frightful at all,
Ghosts and ghouls?
Never heard of them,
It’s just ordinary here,
Mundane,
Please make yourself comfy,
Don’t mind the red running down the wall,
The flies converging in that corner,
Those aren’t bats roosting on the ceiling,
Nor are those shadows moving on their own,
Pay no attention to that low chanting,
Or the scratching under the bed,
It’s like any other home,
Indeed it’s not much but it’s home,
Don’t you find it snug?
Just don’t look in the mirror,
She doesn’t like that,
And when the lights go low,
Don’t mind the figure,
The one at the foot of the bed,
It’s totally ordinary.
Beware that reef child,
It is a graveyard,
A hodgepodge of stony dragons teeth,
Full of great timber titans,
The sound of torn sails and creaking hulls,
And salt-wrapped spectres,
These wrecks are a diorama,
Skeletons still at their posts,
As if frozen in glass,
Awaiting orders that shall never come,
Sailors picked clean by the reef,
Feed for the crabs and fish,
It’s a morbid monument at sea,
Whorled in mist and deathly cries,
It harkens back to a past of seafaring,
Of piracy and exploration and glory,
A time now only whispered,
Upon dead men’s tongues.
On this night of nights,
Something releases a scream amongst screams,
Did you hear it?
That horror of the night,
That shriek of a feminine guise,
That ear splitting cry,
It came from that thing,
That spectral visage over yonder,
With it the eve grows foreboding,
A woman perhaps,
Beautiful yet horrific,
A monster perhaps,
Enticing yet bloodcurdling,
This season attracts such apparitions,
It comes with the territory,
Spectres abound after all,
So I must ask again,
Did you hear it?
The bog is woken up,
The murkiest waters even animate,
Murk becoming effulgent,
That fell flame hovering there,
The waters surface reflects it,
Phosphorescent in its disquiet,
Like a canvas painted by ghosts,
Some machination of the spirit realm,
That dread light,
It’s a foreboding lighthouse in the black,
Offering not salvation,
But a watery grave,
Is it a ghost?
Is it purely folklore?
Or is there a more cogent cause?
Science offering some motive.
On this night of nights,
The breeze is your only companion,
And it doesn’t mean well,
The aether hereabouts has a will of its own,
You feel a presence I’m sure,
A whisper on the wind,
Seething at the company of living souls,
You’re an unwelcome draught,
An intrusion into the night,
It rides about on the air cackling,
It’s a ghost,
A revenant,
A wraith,
It regards you with gelid eyes,
It moves in a gusty rave of enmity,
A hatred demonstrated on the raised pressure,
Its claws are the chills upon your shoulder,
And this spectre seeks to blow you away,
And it will.
Do not quake fleshlings,
When I wail,
When I shriek,
I do not wish terror upon you,
I yearn only to confess my sins,
I don’t have many guests,
I once lived,
I once loved,
Travelled many malms,
Thrust blades betwixt ribs,
I too suffered through loss and heartache,
I was a sinful man like any other,
I daresay much like you,
So don’t be afraid of my ectoplasmic visage,
Just lead your best life,
You’ll end up like me regardless,
A spectre,
Screeching your sins into the night.
WorldofHarley 