At seven o’ clock on a storm-beaten night,Seventeen-year-old Jason sat holding the lightOf a landline phone in his trembling hands,Trying to say what his heart had long planned. At Grandma’s house in Scotch Plains he stayed,With cousins who teased him and jokes they had made.Rain hammered rooftops like drums full of rage—All day they’d been […]
In whispered tales of blood and dread,One name stands tall among the dead.A phantom born from London’s night,Whose shadow swallowed gaslamp light. He killed in ways that chilled the bone,Yet left no reason, truth unknown.No motive penned, no public plea—Just carnage veiled in mystery. But once, he chose to break his spell,And sent a message
On a cold Texas morning in eighteen-eighty-one,Through the woods of Hill County where the wild rivers run,A search party wandered through brush thick and deep,Looking for George Arnold, gone two days without sleep. Sunday had passed, and his family had prayed,But George stayed behind—though he never delayed.He always joined church, every sermon and hymn,Yet that
At 4:45, in ’95,as rain drummed hard on factory tin,old Eric Tollett stayed inside,with Leslie near, the storm shut in. The workers home, the rooms were still,just thunder stalking overhead.His brother Donald, age of sixty,played with Leslie’s boy instead. But suddenly the office doorswung wide with terror in the child.“He’s fallen down! He’s on the
Upon the calm New Zealand sea,bold Diana Stewart raised her lens.A trip for birds, for whales, for light—with fellow nature-loving friends. The boat was steady, morning bright,the waves were soft, the pictures grand…until she saw an immense shaperise from the deep and near the sand. A whale beneath, its shadow long,it surged toward the vessel’s
In Russia’s cold and distant town,Yevgeny stepped outside one day.No luggage packed, no plan declared—just walked, then drove, then rode away. A thousand miles to St. Petersburg,he traveled silent, blank, and pale.Two days he sat without a thought,as though his mind had slipped its trail. He reached the city late at night,then wandered to the
In eighteen eighty-nine, one morn so clear,At Johns Hopkins Hospital, surgeons drew near.Dr. William Halsted, skilled and wise,With nurse Caroline by his side — his prize. She stood by the sinks, her hands in pain,Scrubbing and scalding again and again.Hot water, soap, then acid’s burn,Mercury chloride for the final turn. Her fingers blistered, her arms
In spring of nineteen forty-five,A fragile girl was half alive.In Velp she lay, too weak to stand,A shadowed world, a starving land. Her name was Edda — pale and frail,Her cheeks were sunken, ghostly pale.At fifteen years, so close to death,Each sigh escaped like fleeting breath. The bombs above in thunder roared,The Nazis’ boots her
In springtime’s bloom of ’86,A dream was born through fate’s small tricks.A boy named Will walked campus ground,At Missouri U, where hope was found. A journalist he meant to be,But felt no fire, no energy.For Hollywood — his heart would race,Those films, that magic, that shining place. He’d never left his hometown gate,But dreamt of
For tonight we’ve a tale where the daylight dies.From Where Nightmares Live, our book newly born,Comes a ghostly old legend, of sorrow and scorn. Now Thomas Milwood, a bricklayer proud,Sat in a pub midst a rowdy crowd.But this cold night of January’s chill,His patience was gone, he’d had his fill. He slammed his mug, the
