A poem with Poe's Raven as a template; a hurricane brings a ghoul to my door.
Once upon a midnight dreary as I pondered eyes all bleary,
Over many a weird and furious flashback of dreams of gore,
While I struggled, nearly blocking, there came a rocking,
As of something, gently mocking, mocking at my foolish core.
“It’s just the hurricane,” I muttered, “rocking my home as before--
Only this and nothing more.”
Oh, so clearly, I remember it was in a warm September:
And each separate howling flurry sent its ghoul upon the door.
Discreetly I’d bought the powder--sanely had I planned the murder.
‘Twas the crime compelled by laughter--laughter from the false Tevor.
‘Twas the mad and brutal lover whom the devils name Tevor.
Lifeless here for evermore.
And the solid, old, ominous creaking of each wooden rafter
Roused me--filled me with terrible desire never gained before;
So that then, to keep my courage for the deed, I stood repeating,
“It’s the wind and rain trembling my home and hurricane’s roar--
Just the wind and rain trembling my home and hurricane’s roar--
That is all and nothing more.”
That said my will grew bolder; patient for revenge no longer,
“Love,” said I, “drink and be merry, your happiness I adore.”
But the truth was I was killing, oh so gleeful was I killing,
And so bloody he fell dying, dying on my kitchen floor.
And I laughed loud when I heard him gargle, “I’ll get you whore!”
Empty curse and nothing more.
Deep and dark his corpse was lying, long it’s lain there festering, rotting,
Thinking, plotting plans only the undead dared to spawn before;
This nightmare I strove to weaken while the tempest raged unbroken,
Then the words were spoken, “I am Tevor, are you ready whore?”
And the rafters responded, and sang, “Pour and roar! Pour and roar!”
I thought, “It’s the wind, nothing more.”
Reek of rot then blast of thunder shook my calm and as I floundered,
In there stepped a dripping corpse from the ghastly tales of yore;
No menacing gesture made he, nor threatening remark made he;
But with slapping and sliding steps, he frightened me to my core--
Muttering insanely he sat and frightened me to my core--
Muttered and sat and picked his gore.
And the dead Tevor, never lifting, still is sitting, still is sitting;
Picking madly at his rotting gore in the middle of my kitchen floor.
And his stare has all the seeming of a demon’s that is scheming,
And the light in the morning flings his shadow on the floor;
And his eyes from out that shadow that lies steaming on the floor
Will be gleaming--evermore!