by Johnny Foxx
A ghost story in the form of a poem
|On an island by the coast, where the tide does rise the most, lies a house beneath a hill. Twas at this hill that blood did spill, an act most dark and grim. Come and sit by the fire pit, and listen if you will, to the tale of a man and the ones who wronged him.
It was long ago, so very long, before either of us were born. A man named Jack picked up an axe,and murdered his family purely out of scorn. Some say he was drunk that terrible night, others that he simply went mad. After his arrest, he did not protest, saying it was the must fun he’d ever had.
He dragged their bodies one by one, out back to the family well. He tossed them in, and with each splash, he cursed their souls to hell. After his capture he was sent to rapture, via electric chair. And to this day, the people say, his victims’ spirits are still there. Deep below the ground, amount the damp and cold. Their bones black with rot, and covered with stinking mold.
And on certain nights, when the moon is full, and you can see it’s glowing beams, you can still hear the sound of a chopping axe, and ungodly, ghastly screams. So if you’re ever down that way, by that terrible island rock, stay away from that acursed well, lest you join their flock. They’ll grab you by the hand, with a strong and icy grip, drag you to the bottom, and from your body your life will slip.
Then you’ll be trapped down their forever, with the other victims of Jack. Because once you set foot on that wretched island, you’re doomed to never come back. So heed my words, one and all, people young and old. Stay away from that forsaken island, or be drowned in deathly cold.