Blood at the Root
… yet again, Carolyn laid down her now-calm newborn. She plopped in the rocker to sleep. But the bloody lynched negro boy still loomed over the crib, pointing, accusing.
She yelled, “It wasn’t me!”
But they both knew she’d watched, silent.
The baby wailed. She cradled him, comforting yet again...
Don’t Look
She wanders at the edge of the living and the dead. Dark hair, dead eyes, and cold, cold fingers. Dancing across your peripheral, she fades when you glance over your shoulder.
Closer, closer. She’s closer every time.
When her hand brushes your shoulder, you shiver, wishing you'd never looked back.
Slain Spirit
Pitch-black and foggy, the tomb-filled graveyard didn’t scare Samantha. She accepted the dare to spend the night.
But as the spectre’s bloody eye-sockets and demon-fangs drifted closer, she ran like hellfire. Safely home, she saw her picture next to the morning paper’s headline: Girl’s mutilated body found in Ashland Cemetery.
