Poems Horror Novels & Stories

Because he had just been ripped apart. I turned around slowly and stared at the “pet” who had done the ripping. He still had blood on his face, but somehow looked… innocent. “I was hungry,” he murmured. Maybe it was my imagination, but his pupils looked a little sharper than before. [Wow. Trying to slut-shame someone in a horror dungeon? He had it coming.] [Pop the champagne. Ding-dong, the jerk is dead.] [Lol the stans are out. She can sleep with monsters but nobody can call her out?]

Weary ye shall be, Seeking redemption Like a bat, Blind in the day, Never to walk the earth in the morn Or ye shall burn A living dead, Bloodsucking monster, Causing the heart of your beloved to bleed In the turmoils of Hades Never to return!~~ Poem written by Afeare Adesuwa ~~~~~~ "I'm sorry, master." Dracula shivered, rushing down to bow. "It's not what you think?"

The only reply was the suffocating smoke, swirling ominously around him, and the sound of his own ragged breaths, quickening with each passing moment. Panic clawed at his throat as he strained to hear any sign of her. But the silence was deafening. It intensified the horror that began to creep into his mind. “What if the Demons had caught up with Gem?” The thought alone sent icy tendrils of dread spiraling through him. As he breathed, he began to feel shadows flickering at the edges of his vision. Suddenly, a pale candlelight popped up before his eyes, illuminating the hallways with a creepy radiance.

I don't take it likely with people that come close to what belongs to me. "Nooo! Ah!" The voice cried out as he was being thrown into a pit full of pythons and scorpions. All his body was swollen up and dribbling liquids. "Nooo, Ahhh!" Chris kept crying out from his dream. His body was all covered in blood. "Wake up, baby," Isabella called on to him and began shaking him. "Please wake up. What's happening to him?" She cried out when he wouldn't budge. "HE'S BEEN TAKING TO THE DARK REALM," the spirits of nature said.

The deafening silence only intensifies my fear, leaving me with a sinking feeling that something truly horrific has occurred. I took my step after standing paralyzed for so long, one step at a time, slowly. And as my feet move, the scene before my eyes gets much more horrifying. The furniture is overturned, the walls are splattered with blood, and a chilling breeze sends shivers down my spine. My heart races as I realize that I am not alone in this house, and the unknown presence lurking in the shadows only fuels my terror.

He was lying face down, and face up, all at once. I live in that house now. I am the village "fixer." And every night, I listen to the scratching beneath the floorboards. I don't fear the ones that crawl. I fear the ones that wait. Because now I know that the most terrifying thing in the world isn't death—it’s a corpse that refuses to close its eyes.

In dedication to Born By Power is a series of poem fixed within chapters of the book. The first was relating to Chaos And Apocalypse, which pretty much revealed a lot about the uprise of hell. This is the second and is themed on the horrific nature of Halloween and written with relativeness to hell. What does this hold to unviel? Who knows. Screams of Halloween Halloween, Halloween, Soft screams of blood chime, The period of dark, The day of ghouls, demons and imps,

She closes her eyes as she hears the song of the siren warning and telling them of the Mistress plan as it echoes through the wind, with the song that rings the symphony with the words. “Wolves asleep amidst the trees, bats all are swaying in the breeze, but one soul lies anxious wide awake. With its fear of all manner of ghouls, hags, and wraiths. For your puppet, perfection, white and sleep has flown. Be warry and up to your guard for the fear that surrounds and along. For the witch whose heart is an utter cold, will curse you, truth be told. She comes she'll go leave naught behind, but curses and bolds. Deep, dark forest, birds are silent for the night. Cows turned in as daylight dies, bu

Deep into that darkness peering, Long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals Ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, And the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken Was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo Murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.

Alika’s POV I used to think horror stories exaggerated things. That walls don’t bleed. That houses don’t whisper. That curses were metaphors for family trauma. But now, in this cursed manor—this breathing tomb of Blackwell secrets—I’ve learned the truth. They don’t just whisper. They scream.