Short Horror Stories (Original Works, Mostly)

The Lady

A soul so dark

Blood makes her mark,

An epitome of all that is wrong.

Her demons all hide,

Under words that misguide,

Which sing the same tune of song.

In the night when she roams,

She'll creep in your homes,

And sit at your dining room table.

You must offer her water,

And a pig freshly slaughtered,

And quietly escape if you're able.

Your house is now hers,

Your belongings conferred,

And your body will be her meal.

Or you may bargain a friend,

But you'll suffer your end,

If you choose to make such a deal.

How can a spirit who lives

In the heat that Hell gives,

Have a heart of cold and ice and stone?

But never mind that,

I'll tell you this flat:

Your soul is very much her own.

~Ira Mahadeo