The dark tale, a haunting feat,Unfolds within a quiet street.A camera placed to watch the night,To guard the home till morning light. A couple new, with dreams and peace,Had bought this house for sweet release.But soon strange noises filled the air,Like dragging feet upon the stair. They thought it rats, or pipes that moaned,Till one […]
Back in twenty-fourteen’s July,An old gray ship was left to die.A frigate tired, its battles done,Decommissioned, stripped by everyone. To break it down, they drained the dock,The ship stood high on wooden block.No water near, no waves in sight,Just steel and shadow, day to night. The only way to board the deck,A single ramp —
In Hong Kong’s heart one winter night,’84 — the streets alight.A young man walked with love so true,Ha Ron beside his Jen Yu. They’d dined, they’d laughed, their hearts in sync,The city’s glow began to blink.Across the courtyard, calm and still,He walked her home — as was his will. Old buildings loomed, their edges cracked,The
Sometimes truth outshines fiction’s light,And twists our fate in ways so bright.This tale begins in thirty-four,Where fate would open a fateful door. Captain Falby, proud and keen,A cop in El Paso, brave and clean.Upon his bike he chased that day,A truck that sped and sped away. Sirens wailed, his throttle tight,Through dusty streets he chased
On a Sunday warm in Lafayette,The church bells quiet, the hour set,A father, Bruce, sank in his chair,While peace hung soft upon the air. His little son, just two years old,With hair like sunlight, bright and bold,Slammed his toy plane with fierce delight—“Plane crash! Plane crash!” through morning light. At first, Bruce smiled—just boyish play,But
One warm bright eve in seventy-four,In Old Westbury near New York’s shore,A doctor named Julian Kirchick sat,Beside his pool, relaxed and flat. A surgeon by day, with a life so wide,Four children, a wife always near his side.But this rare calm—this quiet bliss,Was a fleeting peace he didn’t want to miss. He leaned right back,
On a cold December evening, in nineteen eighty-four,Sixteen-year-old John Boulware stepped outside his door.His friends pulled up in a Jeep, their spirits running high,Rain fell from the heavens, clouds covered the sky. They laughed and they sang as the wipers kept time,Headed for a concert — Prince, in his prime.Their hometown hero, from Minneapolis fame,Was
On a cold January afternoon, the year was nineteen-oh-nine,Reverend John Carmichael left, his heart and suit divine.He kissed his wife, his children too, and stepped into the chill,His cloak wrapped tight, his mind set firm, to preach the holy will. Through Michigan’s white countryside, his horse began to glide,Nine miles away in Columbus town, his
Around midday in York, PA,On March 31st, a springtime day,Sat John Schmeer with his friends so tight,At Hooters, their clubhouse, their shared delight. Retired eye doc, his future secure,His buddies were wealthy, successful for sure.They laughed and they joked in their chosen spot,The “Orange Shorts Society”—a name they had brought. But John had a burden
On a crisp September morning in two-thousand-and-seven,Ashley Wallace awoke at dawn, the sky pale as heaven.Just twenty years old, in her dorm she prepared,For her first day of college, excited yet scared. She straightened her clothes, gathered notebooks with care,The mirror reflected a girl going somewhere.A knock at the door made her freeze where she
