Creepy Poetry Novels & Stories

In death, as in life, she was pure evil. And she was here, in the room with her. “Leave, dark spirit,”Mrs Feeney said,in an almost inaudible whisper, “You have no power in this home!” The spirit's unholy presence lowered the temperature in the room and made the atmosphere oppressive and dark. Every shadow seemed magnified in her proximity.The shadows, her guardians.They moved where she did, never leaving her side. What evil was this?Surely it had been human once, alive and breathing, but now, it was a parody of humanity, a force of utter filth, borne of hatred and malice.

"By the roots of the dying tree, By the moon that no longer sees, I call the curse of slow decay, To those who walk in evil's way. Let flesh grow pale, and bones grow weak, Let every breath be cold and bleak. No healer's hand, no magic bright, Shall bring to them the gift of light. Their skin shall rot, their blood shall dry, While they still breathe, they'll wish to die. Let teeth fall out, and hair turn white, Let fever burn them every night.

(Jaxs Pov) The swamp had gone quiet. That was never a good sign. Usually it croaked and hissed and muttered like a drunk with secrets. Now, nothing. Even the mist felt heavy. I leaned in the open doorway, watching the cypress like they might get up and walk. One palm on the frame, weight in my heels, breathing slow so the place didn’t hear me breathing fast. This place creeped me out.