Posted in Horror, poems

When the clock struck twelve

Tactically trapped by the watchful wolves

Dancing in the darkness with hideous hooves

He embraced across the moor in his winter boots.
He walked and walked in the gloomy light.

Watching the horizon and regretting the fight.
He viewed the room in the attic with distaste.

It had to serve, he had no money to waste.
The house owner was reluctant to rent it.

Alas a better place his pockets did not permit.
Finding a job was difficult to find

He was declined, people were so unkind.

At night he went without food

Which made him bitter and in a foul mood.
Someone, unbidden, entered the room.

A young girl smiled at him and gone was the gloom.

She gave him a hot piping plate he knew not what,

A mixture of coconut, steak  and shrimp.
He gulped it all, he was not prim

As she sat closely, too closely next to him.

Soon he was kissing those hot lips,

Even though this was not in his script.
Some days passed and she was always near,

Yet somehow as time went he lost all cheer.

He had no work and his face grew pale

Slowly she wanted more and he grew frail.

Till at the end he could bear it no more.

His body failed, death was very sore.
They found him cold and all alone.
His body almost stiff like stone.

Could it be murder but who?

Only the house keeper knew.
For she well knew that in the attic a ghost haunted,

And killed any man she fancied and wanted.

The place where someone had killed her

Many at that time thought it was a chauffeur.
He had caught her lustfully searching for men,

And lay with them till the clock struck twelve.

Killed, she would not ever herself control

But sucked viciously any man’s soul.