Saturday, October 10, 2015

The Red Room by Ann Landrum Stockstill


Smoky haze seems to follow me,
Lights bouncing off shadowed halls.
Sounds of creaking boards from up above.

Glimpses of reflections in mirrors 
That are not mine.
Losing things and finding them
In places they have never gone.

Something is moving in the red room
That makes my hair stand on end.
Whispering sounds of rustling silk 
Touching my skin.

What could it be that gives me the chills,
And suddenly appears and disappears?
Eerie screams in the pitch dark woods 
Late at night,
Dogs howling when there is nothing in sight.

Could this place be haunted?
Should I stay or should I go?
Whatever it is, seems to always leave
At the break of day.

Something is touching my hair
But no one is standing there.

~ ~ ~
All rights reserved. (c) 

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