Behind the Couch

Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bow’d her head to hear, Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger tips. “Lie close,” Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: “We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?” “Come buy,” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. “Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men.” Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, Cover’d close lest they should look; Laura rear’d her glossy head, And whisper’d like the restless brook: “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes.” “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Thei...

Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there He wasn't there again today I wish, I wish he'd go away... When I came home last night at three The man was waiting there for me But when I looked around the hall I couldn't see him there at all! Go away, go away, don't you come back any more! Go away, go away, and please don't slam the door... (slam!) Last night I saw upon the stair A little man who wasn't there He wasn't there again today Oh, how I wish he'd go away... Hughes Mearns (1899)

You heap the logs and try to fill The little room with words and cheer, But silent feet are on the hill, Across the window veiled eyes peer. The hosts of lovers, young in death, Go seeking down the world to-night, Remembering faces, warmth and breath— And they shall seek till it is light. Then let the white-flaked logs burn low, Lest those who drift before the storm See gladness on our hearth and know There is no flame can make them warm. Hortense King Flexner (1917)

Rural Non-Fiction History by McMorr I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls, And a cellar in which the daylight falls And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield The woods come back to the mowing field; The orchard tree has grown one copse Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; The footpath down to the well is healed. I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart On that disused and forgotten road That has no dust-bath now for the toad. Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; The whippoorwill is coming to shout And hush and cluck and flutter about: I hear him begin far enough away Full many a time to say his say Before he arrives to say it out. It is under the small, dim, summer star. I know not who these mute folk are Who share the unlit place with me— Those stones out under the lo...

Today is National Poetry Day and throughout the UK there’ll be all kinds of poetical shenanigans afoot; readings, performances, launches and such. Inspired by the famed exclamation of Coleridge's mariner - ‘Water, water everywhere’ - the theme of this year’s NPD is, you guessed it, ‘water.’  I thought I'd get into the spirit of the day and post some of my favourite poems here. However, as this is a horror blog, and as we’ve just entered the month of October, I thought it infinitely more fitting to post poems of a somewhat macabre nature: lost souls, haunted houses, devious goblins, that sort of thing. So let us go then, you and I, and turn no more your head, because you know that a frightful fiend doth close behind us tread…  Ghost House by Robert Frost (1913)  All Soul's Night by Hortense King Flexner (1917)  Antigonish by Hughes Mearns (1899)  Goblin Market (excerpt) by Christina Rossetti (1862) 

Born on January 19th in 1809, Edgar Allan Poe is one of the most recognised and revered names in gothic literature. Part of the American Romantic movement, Poe is best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre. Not only an author and a poet, he was also a literary critic and editor, and one of the earliest practitioners of the short story. Now widely regarded as inventing detective fiction, Poe was also a popular crime and horror author, his influence spreads far and wide, and amongst the writers who owe a tremendous dept to his work are Herman Melville, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Charles Dickens, Walt Whitman, HP Lovecraft and Jules Verne, to name but a few. A true visionary, Poe was one of the first well-known American writers to attempt to irk out a living through writing alone, leading him down a path of financial instability and uncertainty. His gruesome stories reflected his inner turmoil. Haunted by the death of his mother, Poe wrestled with fears of aban...

"Fade away, Sweet dreams, I'll be listening for your screams." - Sleep Tight As a fan of horror, you most likely have fond memories of being terrified by creepy stories as a child. You maybe weren’t so fond of feeling those sensations at the time, but looking back, it forms a sort of rite of passage many horror fans now reflect upon quite nostalgically. Children are drawn to scary stories; they possess the same morbid curiosity about such dark subject matter as adult fans of horror. Indeed, many children’s stories and fairy tales unravel as dark morality tales in much the same way as horror films do. Fairy tales, ghost stories and horror films work on a subconscious level to teach us about the dangers inherent in our world. They are saturated with cautionary morality; warning and preparing young listeners and readers for the trials and tribulations they will face, and ultimately strive to overcome. By hearing about life-threatening problems and potential threats, ...