Step into the shadowy realm of "Poe's Nightmares," a mesmerizing collection of short stories and poetry penned by the enigmatic Lady Eckland. This anthology is a tribute to the master of the macabre, Edgar Allan Poe, whose spectral whisper resonates...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Beneath the gibbous moon's sly leer, in a home where love did dwell, A couple clasped in warm embrace, where shadows seemed to swell. The night was clad in silence deep, a hush before the storm, But soon there came a scratching sound, a sign of something forlorn.
Scratch, scratch, upon the door—it echoed through the hall, A sound so faint, yet filled with dread, it made their skin to crawl. "What fiend or foul creature stirs," the man to his love did say, "In such an hour where decent folk have long since slipped away?"
The woman, with a tremble soft, drew closer to his side, "Perhaps a branch," she offered low, "by wicked winds applied." But as the oak outside stood still, its limbs by not a breeze caressed, They knew the scratching at their door was not by nature pressed.
The man, with courage feigned, approached the door with quiet tread, His heart within his chest did pound, his soul was filled with dread. "Who scratches there, at this late hour?" he called into the night, But only silence answered him, a pause in the scratching's blight.
Again, it came—a louder scrape, as if to mock his plea, A sound that spoke of grave intent, a direful decree. The woman whispered, "Do not dare to open to the night, For what may enter with the dark could snuff out love's own light."
The couple huddled close within, the scratching now a din, As if some clawed and desperate thing demanded to be in. And in the hearth, the fire dimmed, as if it too did fear The evil that lurked just beyond, the threat that loomed so near.
A tale of old, a warning given, by elder to the youth, That evil oft will test the bounds of innocence and truth. So did the couple now recall, as midnight chimed its toll, The stories of the scratching dread, a signature of a soulless ghoul.
Hours passed, the night grew old, the scratching never ceased, But as the edge of dawn approached, the awful noise decreased. The couple, weary, watched the sun reclaim the sky's great span, And with the light, the scratching stopped, as though it never began.
Yet when they dared to venture forth, a sight did meet their eyes, The door was marred by marks of rage, enough to make one wise. For etched within the splintered wood, were symbols known to few, A sign of hex, a curse of old, a chilling, frightful cue.
With daylight's grace, they left the place, where once they knew such peace, For in the world, as in the tale, such evils never cease. And in the night, when scratching comes, remember in your fright, Not every sound is what it seems, when love is your guiding light.
Thus ends the tale of scratching heard, a warning to us all, To guard our hearts, our homes, our lives, when darkness comes to call. For though the light may chase away the shadows of the night, Beware the evil that may scratch, and long to snuff out light.
