Write a ghost story
Casted_Runes
Mr Karswell
Forum Posts: 476
Mr Karswell
Fire of Insight
5
Joined 4th Oct 2021Forum Posts: 476
Poetry Contest Description
See competition title
Can be poetry or prose, max 3000 words, must be a story about a ghost, ghosts, or some other supernatural thing, a la this definition from Wikipedia:
“A ghost story is any piece of fiction, or drama, that includes a ghost, or simply takes as a premise the possibility of ghosts or characters' belief in them.”
Non-pornographic content preferred, and I include pornographised violence in that, although I’m not going to say you can’t have extreme sex and violence in your story.
APissPoorShaman
Ryszard
Forum Posts: 31
Ryszard
Fire of Insight
2
Joined 12th May 2021Forum Posts: 31
delete
Grace
IDryad
Forum Posts: 17015
IDryad
Tyrant of Words
126
Joined 25th Aug 2011Forum Posts: 17015
The Ghost
what do you say when all's done and gone
when words are useless and actions speaks louder
what do you do when there's nothing left to say
when all you can do is breathe for another day
and he answers
I will wipe her name from my heart
as will the waves wipe the sand
of all imprints everyday
I will erase the memory of her face
from my mind and my heart
I will travel on and superimpose
another's laughter in my happiness
she is a ghost
haunting an empty house
she is a spectre
just floating dusts...
Written by Grace
(IDryad)
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Vision_of_insanity
Forum Posts: 92
Tyrant of Words
14
Joined 22nd Jan 2024Forum Posts: 92
Lost Souls Rejoicing
Here we are at the nightmare parade
after hours you hear cries in the night
the shadows fall as you witness ghosts of the midway
living dolls steal your soul
you dare to ride the haunted carousel?
calliope plays mysteriously in the foreground
the circus freaks storm the theater of sorrow
the snake charmer hypnotizes you
spellbound, you await for Madame Endora to foretell your future
the proclamation looks good
you arrive safely at home and into your bed
the next time, your fortune may not be so lucky.
after hours you hear cries in the night
the shadows fall as you witness ghosts of the midway
living dolls steal your soul
you dare to ride the haunted carousel?
calliope plays mysteriously in the foreground
the circus freaks storm the theater of sorrow
the snake charmer hypnotizes you
spellbound, you await for Madame Endora to foretell your future
the proclamation looks good
you arrive safely at home and into your bed
the next time, your fortune may not be so lucky.
Written by Vision_of_insanity
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Vision_of_insanity
Forum Posts: 92
Tyrant of Words
14
Joined 22nd Jan 2024Forum Posts: 92
Empty Hopes
One year from now will I arrive?
A premonition of death & lies
complicity burns the remembrance
criminals sleep, compelling evidence
tight rope of hopes begin to fray
ghost of the sun hides in the shade
thoughts & memories dissolve & fade
one last breath where my body will lay
A premonition of death & lies
complicity burns the remembrance
criminals sleep, compelling evidence
tight rope of hopes begin to fray
ghost of the sun hides in the shade
thoughts & memories dissolve & fade
one last breath where my body will lay
Written by Vision_of_insanity
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Vision_of_insanity
Forum Posts: 92
Tyrant of Words
14
Joined 22nd Jan 2024Forum Posts: 92
Sails the Lonely Ship
From a land I was exiled
I sail on,
Forevermore
Who will guide me now?
The sun never rises
Beyond the stars,
Unknown
Ploughing through angry waves
cold winds blow
ice forming on the mast
Desperate
Memories of loved ones fading away
Children grow & die
Who will remember or accept me
Discarded
Waiting to die.
I sail on,
Forevermore
Who will guide me now?
The sun never rises
Beyond the stars,
Unknown
Ploughing through angry waves
cold winds blow
ice forming on the mast
Desperate
Memories of loved ones fading away
Children grow & die
Who will remember or accept me
Discarded
Waiting to die.
Written by Vision_of_insanity
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gothicsurrealism
Daniel Long
Forum Posts: 188
Daniel Long
Thought Provoker
10
Joined 26th Nov 2018 Forum Posts: 188
Savannah's Headstone
Sheila is and always was a schizophrenic. This misery has haunted her since the dolls in school shifted their eyes to her – whispering… she still hears them. Shrieking glasses in the cabinet… no they were only fracturing, shattering when she slammed her own head through the cabinet door. Oddities plagued her mind more so than the fresh taste of reality.
“Sorry” she’d say to herself aloud for believing nonsensical delusions, for even believing flowers come into blossom because they have eyes, parting their petals to see the sun. She still swears those dolls looked at her.
There she was. A late October day enclosed her body with a shroud of cold. The beautiful foliage of dead leaves embracing their brilliant, white Autumn star. Sheila wandered into an old Gothic cemetery which cradled her friend Savannah’s deathly reticence, for her headstone was the youngest in the aging burial ground. Not a mourner left to visit, she took a briskly walk around every shrubby hill and bend on the vanishing dirt paths. Pikes of crab grass and tall weeds blanketed the graves, the headstones were as well draped in green moss and thick branching vines. There’s beauty, no depression here.
Sheila would memorize the names upon the headstones and their dates of departure. ‘Their day of deliverance,’ as she thought often of her own coming sunset. Still, there’s enough ‘burning sun’ she held. These walks in the cemetery bring respiting moments of purgatories within. Distant voices from beneath the earth still call for her to come back. There was only one headstone Sheila came to visit however.
Savannah’s headstone is nearly uprooted from the swelling roots of a great maple she was buried beside. “That tree was a child, and you were a child when you came to rest here Savannah” Sheila whispered to her headstone. Savannah’s tilted, moss-ridden headstone was sacred. These were the times she cherished with her only friend. Sheila would prop herself against the maple’s trunk beside Savannah with her poetry journal.
Whispers constant, Sheila often daydreamed rather than compose her ‘legacy in pen.’ She typically wrote enough a day to fill a page, no more. Everyday a whisper, everyday a poem spoken to her. Grasping her journal, head leaning on the trunk, eyes shut, pen in hand… always listening. This day yet a whisper. The page vacant of words, only a white-hot glare from the paper in the glaring midday sun, her eyes shut… listening.
“I come when you’re cold” a voice whispered.
Sheila’s eyes shot open as if to the hell of gunfire. She looked about the stone clustered cemetery.
“It can’t be” Sheila stammered.
Her mind spoke in doubts; her heart hammered her chest as she came to. Her eyes came to rest on her friend’s headstone till they glazed over. She laid her head back, her eyelids snipped out the daylight.
She felt the warmth of the descending sun fade from her face. The illumination of her eyes dimmed in her long-awaited sunset as it bled to death into the blue twilight of her life. She’s come to rest beside her only friend. She thought not to leave anytime soon, she felt her friend watching over her. “One hug” she whispered, “just wished I coulda’ given’ ya one last hug.” Without parting her teary curtains, she crawled over to Savannah, wrapped her arms around her, and kissed the mossy stone.
The stone chilled her cheek.
“Come back” Sheila whispered. A tear trickled and disappeared into the moss…
“Come back.”
Her eyes drained of their last tears as their wells have iced over.
“Sheila” a soft voice crept into her ear.
A damp eyelid hoisted, the frosty night gave a fresh chill to her teary eyes. The needles of crab grass dagger into her bare feet. The whites of her rainy eyes illumined in the pitch-night’s white moon.
“Sheila.”
Her eyelids unlocked from their death, something opaque had filmed over her eyes it seemed, for whatever it was, it couldn’t be what her eyes were showing her. Then a ice-cold hand rested on her cheek.
“Thank you” the soft voice whispered.
Sheila detached her cheek from the moss and looked up into two brilliant, wide eye-moons. Moss dangling from her tear-sore cheek, her eyes finally found her whisperer.
“Here…” a hand combed the moss out from Sheila’s hair.
“I missed you” Sheila’s voice choked. Savannah smiled.
“I’ve been hugging you all along.” Savannah drifted her fingers over Sheila’s mossy cheek.
Sheila couldn’t speak. She couldn’t find the words save three that define the most powerful emotion.
“Hush” Savannah rested a finger upon Sheila’s lips, “I know.”
“Sorry” she’d say to herself aloud for believing nonsensical delusions, for even believing flowers come into blossom because they have eyes, parting their petals to see the sun. She still swears those dolls looked at her.
There she was. A late October day enclosed her body with a shroud of cold. The beautiful foliage of dead leaves embracing their brilliant, white Autumn star. Sheila wandered into an old Gothic cemetery which cradled her friend Savannah’s deathly reticence, for her headstone was the youngest in the aging burial ground. Not a mourner left to visit, she took a briskly walk around every shrubby hill and bend on the vanishing dirt paths. Pikes of crab grass and tall weeds blanketed the graves, the headstones were as well draped in green moss and thick branching vines. There’s beauty, no depression here.
Sheila would memorize the names upon the headstones and their dates of departure. ‘Their day of deliverance,’ as she thought often of her own coming sunset. Still, there’s enough ‘burning sun’ she held. These walks in the cemetery bring respiting moments of purgatories within. Distant voices from beneath the earth still call for her to come back. There was only one headstone Sheila came to visit however.
Savannah’s headstone is nearly uprooted from the swelling roots of a great maple she was buried beside. “That tree was a child, and you were a child when you came to rest here Savannah” Sheila whispered to her headstone. Savannah’s tilted, moss-ridden headstone was sacred. These were the times she cherished with her only friend. Sheila would prop herself against the maple’s trunk beside Savannah with her poetry journal.
Whispers constant, Sheila often daydreamed rather than compose her ‘legacy in pen.’ She typically wrote enough a day to fill a page, no more. Everyday a whisper, everyday a poem spoken to her. Grasping her journal, head leaning on the trunk, eyes shut, pen in hand… always listening. This day yet a whisper. The page vacant of words, only a white-hot glare from the paper in the glaring midday sun, her eyes shut… listening.
“I come when you’re cold” a voice whispered.
Sheila’s eyes shot open as if to the hell of gunfire. She looked about the stone clustered cemetery.
“It can’t be” Sheila stammered.
Her mind spoke in doubts; her heart hammered her chest as she came to. Her eyes came to rest on her friend’s headstone till they glazed over. She laid her head back, her eyelids snipped out the daylight.
She felt the warmth of the descending sun fade from her face. The illumination of her eyes dimmed in her long-awaited sunset as it bled to death into the blue twilight of her life. She’s come to rest beside her only friend. She thought not to leave anytime soon, she felt her friend watching over her. “One hug” she whispered, “just wished I coulda’ given’ ya one last hug.” Without parting her teary curtains, she crawled over to Savannah, wrapped her arms around her, and kissed the mossy stone.
The stone chilled her cheek.
“Come back” Sheila whispered. A tear trickled and disappeared into the moss…
“Come back.”
Her eyes drained of their last tears as their wells have iced over.
“Sheila” a soft voice crept into her ear.
A damp eyelid hoisted, the frosty night gave a fresh chill to her teary eyes. The needles of crab grass dagger into her bare feet. The whites of her rainy eyes illumined in the pitch-night’s white moon.
“Sheila.”
Her eyelids unlocked from their death, something opaque had filmed over her eyes it seemed, for whatever it was, it couldn’t be what her eyes were showing her. Then a ice-cold hand rested on her cheek.
“Thank you” the soft voice whispered.
Sheila detached her cheek from the moss and looked up into two brilliant, wide eye-moons. Moss dangling from her tear-sore cheek, her eyes finally found her whisperer.
“Here…” a hand combed the moss out from Sheila’s hair.
“I missed you” Sheila’s voice choked. Savannah smiled.
“I’ve been hugging you all along.” Savannah drifted her fingers over Sheila’s mossy cheek.
Sheila couldn’t speak. She couldn’t find the words save three that define the most powerful emotion.
“Hush” Savannah rested a finger upon Sheila’s lips, “I know.”
Written by gothicsurrealism
(Daniel Long)
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CasketSharpe
Forum Posts: 161
Tyrant of Words
16
Joined 12th June 2013Forum Posts: 161
Haunted Headache (Halloween Syck House Series)
“Going home is a bitch, because all I do is deal with ghost
The spiritual motherfuckas most defiantly be doing the most,
“Every time I unlock the door to let myself in
They change the temperature into an artic freezing wind,
“Covered in frost from my head down to my feet
Now another ghost is bombarding me with intense heat,
“I shake my head and just fucking stare
Because another one is hovering around in my Jordan’s and underwear,
“Constantly they move furniture without my permission
Levitating pots and pans every time I go in the kitchen,
“Watching TV-you can say is an impossible task
With them becoming part of the show-that shit makes me mad,
“During the final season of the Game of Thrones
Next thing I know the Night King was fucking up shit all in my home,
“But every time I start watching Ghostbusters
The haunting stops and it gets real quite up in this motherfucker,
“Had a woman who wanted to spend the night at my shit
I said no-to save her soul, but the girl started bitching and having a fit,
“Thinking I was cheating so she showed up unannounced one night
Ever since then the nosey bitch has not been mentally right,
“When I called a priest-they said ‘motherfucka bring it on’
Hours later he renounced God and family and never went back home,
“Newly created ghost thinks that my body they can posses
Little do they know its instant annihilation-a permanent rest,
“Some try to convince me to slit my throat whenever I shave
Or at times hover electronics over me whenever I bathe,
“Suicide is not my field of expertise-so they can kiss my ass
The shit they constantly do is unearthly pathetic and goddamn sad,
“Their means to the madness is to prevent sleep
Because when I dream all haunting instantly cease,
“My evil spirit is then released and able to roam free
But until I awake it is an all-night ghost killing spree”.
The spiritual motherfuckas most defiantly be doing the most,
“Every time I unlock the door to let myself in
They change the temperature into an artic freezing wind,
“Covered in frost from my head down to my feet
Now another ghost is bombarding me with intense heat,
“I shake my head and just fucking stare
Because another one is hovering around in my Jordan’s and underwear,
“Constantly they move furniture without my permission
Levitating pots and pans every time I go in the kitchen,
“Watching TV-you can say is an impossible task
With them becoming part of the show-that shit makes me mad,
“During the final season of the Game of Thrones
Next thing I know the Night King was fucking up shit all in my home,
“But every time I start watching Ghostbusters
The haunting stops and it gets real quite up in this motherfucker,
“Had a woman who wanted to spend the night at my shit
I said no-to save her soul, but the girl started bitching and having a fit,
“Thinking I was cheating so she showed up unannounced one night
Ever since then the nosey bitch has not been mentally right,
“When I called a priest-they said ‘motherfucka bring it on’
Hours later he renounced God and family and never went back home,
“Newly created ghost thinks that my body they can posses
Little do they know its instant annihilation-a permanent rest,
“Some try to convince me to slit my throat whenever I shave
Or at times hover electronics over me whenever I bathe,
“Suicide is not my field of expertise-so they can kiss my ass
The shit they constantly do is unearthly pathetic and goddamn sad,
“Their means to the madness is to prevent sleep
Because when I dream all haunting instantly cease,
“My evil spirit is then released and able to roam free
But until I awake it is an all-night ghost killing spree”.
Written by CasketSharpe
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thembinkosi98
Thembinkosi Khani
Joined 15th June 2024
Forum Posts: 3
Thembinkosi Khani
Strange Creature
Forum Posts: 3
Mmmm fascinating
Betty
Forum Posts: 511
Tyrant of Words
27
Joined 8th May 2012Forum Posts: 511
Resurrection
Two sets of footprints
lead from the door
to the bedroom.
Graveyard dirt and heartblood
mixed into a sludge
and slurred across
my pristine
oak floors.
I was chopping onions
because it’s something I do now
And froze at the sound
of your knuckles on my door.
Palsied hands moved underwater
as existentialism became bullshit
because zombies and ghosts
and all the things that scream
motherfucker in the night
were real.
You were real.
My hand digs in my scalp,
face a rictus,
because I buried you.
I threw myself on your coffin,
I screamed to god that it wasn’t fair,
I begged the universe to take me
because life on your headstone
wasn’t life at all.
I buried you.
Clods of dirt marred my
rattan door mat, and
a handprint I could have
traced from memory
stained my door frame.
I stabbed first,
before I could so much as think,
shoving my onion knife in your chest
with a feral scream,
but the light in your eyes didn’t fade.
I’d forgotten.
You can’t kill the dead like that.
So I put it through my own heart,
too fast for you to stop it,
and fell to my knees like a puling Juliette.
I looked up,
as always,
from your feet;
you smeared heartblood,
like red lipstick
across my cheek
from where it bubbled
on my mouth
And helped me up.
I staggered away, leaving the door open.
I staggered away,
clutching furniture
like an old woman
as I made my way to a
shroud of sheets
beckoning me onward.
My bare feet dragged
through the maroon river
cascading down my
slim body
And there are two
sets of footprints
leading
from the doorway
to the bedroom.
Written by Betty
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PAR
PAULO ACACIO RAMOS
Forum Posts: 307
PAULO ACACIO RAMOS
Dangerous Mind
20
Joined 26th May 2022Forum Posts: 307
rummaging-through-the-dead-lovers
Rew
Forum Posts: 557
Fire of Insight
15
Joined 30th Sep 2022 Forum Posts: 557
The Bisto-Kid.
It's dark and damp in Georgia, near
this Cahulawassee river,
a jungle like Borneo, it's clear
as I break another nail, and shiver.
On the Appalachian trail
a visit to the primitive past,
" I must be outta my tree," I wail
but mostly I need food and fast.
" Dinner's ready " a ghostly moan
dies away in the falling night,
a rattle of pans make me groan
coz I ain't dined since early light.
The smell of smoke awakes my plight
as does the aroma of roast pork,
I've already pulled my belt in tight
as my hike starts to feel, like work.
No campfire flame, as yet, is shown
no track pointing to campsite,
just torturing smells, these are blown
up my nose becoming my sight.
And my tracking skills track it right
Ah! a Bisto-Kid... in the gloomy murk
but still slavering for a bite
but no welcoming campfire spark.
But my nose leads me to a hut,
a stone stove, a G.I dixie,
my belly thinks my throat's been cut
but the smell of long-cooked-piggy,
turns my hands to tearing claws
all is silent, not a sound,
but slurping lips, my chomp of jaws
filling belly, now heaven bound.
I poke the fire up to a blaze
and see the roasted leg is, kinda small,
no crackling but hell I'm ready to praise
the cook an' clean an' wash an' all.
In the gloom I kick a boot
and my delight is changed to fright,
coz horror of horrors in it, a foot
as I bang outta there into the night,
I knock a table, something rolls to the floor,
a chopped up head with accusing eyes
watched me chase my vomit, out the door...
this Cahulawassee river,
a jungle like Borneo, it's clear
as I break another nail, and shiver.
On the Appalachian trail
a visit to the primitive past,
" I must be outta my tree," I wail
but mostly I need food and fast.
" Dinner's ready " a ghostly moan
dies away in the falling night,
a rattle of pans make me groan
coz I ain't dined since early light.
The smell of smoke awakes my plight
as does the aroma of roast pork,
I've already pulled my belt in tight
as my hike starts to feel, like work.
No campfire flame, as yet, is shown
no track pointing to campsite,
just torturing smells, these are blown
up my nose becoming my sight.
And my tracking skills track it right
Ah! a Bisto-Kid... in the gloomy murk
but still slavering for a bite
but no welcoming campfire spark.
But my nose leads me to a hut,
a stone stove, a G.I dixie,
my belly thinks my throat's been cut
but the smell of long-cooked-piggy,
turns my hands to tearing claws
all is silent, not a sound,
but slurping lips, my chomp of jaws
filling belly, now heaven bound.
I poke the fire up to a blaze
and see the roasted leg is, kinda small,
no crackling but hell I'm ready to praise
the cook an' clean an' wash an' all.
In the gloom I kick a boot
and my delight is changed to fright,
coz horror of horrors in it, a foot
as I bang outta there into the night,
I knock a table, something rolls to the floor,
a chopped up head with accusing eyes
watched me chase my vomit, out the door...
Written by Rew
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The Renards
Once upon my time. There was a small person. Well not as small as the smallest but not as big as the biggest, either.
This person walks around in the world seemingly invisible to all unless there is a need to be seen.
Today this person was certainly needed. Rin of the Renard’s heard the summoned plea on the wind and knew the time had come to be visible once again.
The Summoned
“Lily it is forbidden to call a Renard.” Julian stated in a whisper.
Julian, her sister, not by blood but by circumstances that she refused to relive. Since it brings back horrors to her mind.
“What good is it, if we cannot use it in our desperate time?” She whispered back.
She made it to the clearing in the shaded woods to begin.
“I can not be here with you.” Julian turned and ran back.
She closed her eyes and said, “Wind and worry, sorrow and fear, I bid you Renard to appear.”
The figure appeared before her covered in shadowed light.
“What is your need?”
“I lost a pendant that is linked to my soul. Please return it to me.”
“What are you willing to give in return?”
“Whatever the price.”
“The body the soul is attached to.”
She nodded and unclasped her hands to find the pendant in it. She honored her word and prepared to die with her eyes closed.
Winds whirled and whipped about, and silence came after.
“Open your eyes.”
She did and saw herself before her.
“Thank you, Lily, for giving my soul a home again.” Then Renard left in the shadow.
“You’re welcome.” Whispered.
You see Renard’s are the forgotten souls of those who felt unneeded, invisible to all. What would you give to be needed and save your soul?
This person walks around in the world seemingly invisible to all unless there is a need to be seen.
Today this person was certainly needed. Rin of the Renard’s heard the summoned plea on the wind and knew the time had come to be visible once again.
The Summoned
“Lily it is forbidden to call a Renard.” Julian stated in a whisper.
Julian, her sister, not by blood but by circumstances that she refused to relive. Since it brings back horrors to her mind.
“What good is it, if we cannot use it in our desperate time?” She whispered back.
She made it to the clearing in the shaded woods to begin.
“I can not be here with you.” Julian turned and ran back.
She closed her eyes and said, “Wind and worry, sorrow and fear, I bid you Renard to appear.”
The figure appeared before her covered in shadowed light.
“What is your need?”
“I lost a pendant that is linked to my soul. Please return it to me.”
“What are you willing to give in return?”
“Whatever the price.”
“The body the soul is attached to.”
She nodded and unclasped her hands to find the pendant in it. She honored her word and prepared to die with her eyes closed.
Winds whirled and whipped about, and silence came after.
“Open your eyes.”
She did and saw herself before her.
“Thank you, Lily, for giving my soul a home again.” Then Renard left in the shadow.
“You’re welcome.” Whispered.
You see Renard’s are the forgotten souls of those who felt unneeded, invisible to all. What would you give to be needed and save your soul?
Written by fianaturie8
(Fia Naturie)
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adagio
Forum Posts: 609
Tyrant of Words
5
Joined 15th Jan 2019Forum Posts: 609
Sea Of Keys
Lost in a sea of keys
on the keyboard
with the ghost
of a dream
feeling so lonely
reaching out to me
with alt delete
and stalks
of growing fear
in my insomnia
grasping for vowels
with butterflies in my bowels
listening to the hard drive howl
"no time for fowls"
on the keyboard
dripping ink of dead
to the dark, I'm wed
a sweet ammonia
of my silence fed
banging on the Lenovo
on the keyboard
with the ghost
of a dream
feeling so lonely
reaching out to me
with alt delete
and stalks
of growing fear
in my insomnia
grasping for vowels
with butterflies in my bowels
listening to the hard drive howl
"no time for fowls"
on the keyboard
dripping ink of dead
to the dark, I'm wed
a sweet ammonia
of my silence fed
banging on the Lenovo
Written by adagio
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Timagination2
Forum Posts: 12
Thought Provoker
1
Joined 18th Jan 2024Forum Posts: 12
The Horrifying Nightmares
If you promise not to speak about this, I'll tell you my story. It's not out of shame or embarrassment that I prefer confidentiality. It's just that, well...not many people believe such a wild tale.
You see, around this time every year, I am tormented by a nightmare. I've tried to stay up without sleeping but I inevitably fail at my attempts each time. It's as though I'm under some menacing spell that refuses to break its hold. But I believe I may know the source of its origins.
I've been a Buddy Holly fan since I can remember. His guitar playing sounds like a breath of fresh air to me and the 1950's seems like such a magical era.
When my first girlfriend broke up with me I consoled myself by listening to his song 'Learning the game." And his song 'Peggy Sue' had such a great beat I drummed along to it on my bed every night. I even learned the paradidle pattern I knew his drummer Jerry Ivan Allison performed on the song.
But about five years ago, something happened I can't explain. I know this sounds rather peculiar, but you see, every February 3rd the idea of going to sleep horrifies me. As though I'm cursed, I experience the most terrifying nightmares that leave me questioning why.
It happens like this....
At around 1:22 in the morning I'll sense an eerie breeze with a whistling wind that borders on being sinister. Then, Holly's voice will come fleeting by as though pulled from the fabric of time. His melodic southern drawl is unmistakable as he sings:
"You say you're gonna leave, you know it's a lie 'cause that'll be the day that I die."
As the last word dissipates, there's the sound of a coin dropping to the floor.
The following sounds of a troubled, sputtering engine descending to the ground at high speed keeps me locked in terror. My face will fill with sweat. A trickle will run down my cheek. Internally, panic will set in. A quick series of sickening thuds will fill my room before finally it all comes to a frightening stop. The silence that follows keeps me from opening my eyes.
What happens next torments me. In the dream, I'm suddenly at the crash site. I see the plane smash beyond recognition; the skid marks; and the dreadful site of the bodies spread throughout the freezing snow-covered cornfield are debilitating.
Then, in ghostly form, I see him. Holly looks at me with a fearful look on his face repeating the words: "I'm not supposed to die. Please don't let me die! Don't let me die."
In a flash, he's lying back in the bloody snow with a piece of his head missing. How can I possibly describe the icy feeling I'm left with? It's like being in a freezer, unable to move a muscle.
But the sound of that coin never goes away. I can't get that out of my head.
As the story goes...before the flight, Holly flipped a coin with Country star Wayland Jennings who was part of the band (the crickets) that night. Whoever tossed heads was the one who would fly on the plane and avoid the drafty bus that everyone got ill on rolling across the country. After holly won, he jokingly said to Jennings, "I hope your bus freezes up." Jennings joked back to Holly - "I hope your plane crashes." The rest is history.
The small private plane took off on February 3rd at around one in the morning after a show at the Surf Ballroom which starred Holly, The Big Bopper and Richie Valens. The pilot Roger Peterson put the plane on auto pilot unaware of the rough winter weather ahead and the plane crashed in a cornfield in Clear lake, Iowa.
I wasn't alive in 1959 when the crash happened. I'm just a fan like everyone else.
Why the nightmares? I don't know. But I do know this.
The dreams have always been a part of me. They've haunted me every year. I go to sleep and then as it always does, the music dies--in the cold, silent, snow.
So now you know my story. Please, tell no one.
Oh, and there's just one more thing. For the last three days, Holly has visited me in my dreams. Each dream is identical. He stands in my bedroom holding a bouquet of flowers next to a coffin. The top is opened. As I stand from my bed I look in to find it's me lying inside.
You see, yesterday, I was diagnosed with stage four cancer.
I may have only days or weeks to live.
You see, around this time every year, I am tormented by a nightmare. I've tried to stay up without sleeping but I inevitably fail at my attempts each time. It's as though I'm under some menacing spell that refuses to break its hold. But I believe I may know the source of its origins.
I've been a Buddy Holly fan since I can remember. His guitar playing sounds like a breath of fresh air to me and the 1950's seems like such a magical era.
When my first girlfriend broke up with me I consoled myself by listening to his song 'Learning the game." And his song 'Peggy Sue' had such a great beat I drummed along to it on my bed every night. I even learned the paradidle pattern I knew his drummer Jerry Ivan Allison performed on the song.
But about five years ago, something happened I can't explain. I know this sounds rather peculiar, but you see, every February 3rd the idea of going to sleep horrifies me. As though I'm cursed, I experience the most terrifying nightmares that leave me questioning why.
It happens like this....
At around 1:22 in the morning I'll sense an eerie breeze with a whistling wind that borders on being sinister. Then, Holly's voice will come fleeting by as though pulled from the fabric of time. His melodic southern drawl is unmistakable as he sings:
"You say you're gonna leave, you know it's a lie 'cause that'll be the day that I die."
As the last word dissipates, there's the sound of a coin dropping to the floor.
The following sounds of a troubled, sputtering engine descending to the ground at high speed keeps me locked in terror. My face will fill with sweat. A trickle will run down my cheek. Internally, panic will set in. A quick series of sickening thuds will fill my room before finally it all comes to a frightening stop. The silence that follows keeps me from opening my eyes.
What happens next torments me. In the dream, I'm suddenly at the crash site. I see the plane smash beyond recognition; the skid marks; and the dreadful site of the bodies spread throughout the freezing snow-covered cornfield are debilitating.
Then, in ghostly form, I see him. Holly looks at me with a fearful look on his face repeating the words: "I'm not supposed to die. Please don't let me die! Don't let me die."
In a flash, he's lying back in the bloody snow with a piece of his head missing. How can I possibly describe the icy feeling I'm left with? It's like being in a freezer, unable to move a muscle.
But the sound of that coin never goes away. I can't get that out of my head.
As the story goes...before the flight, Holly flipped a coin with Country star Wayland Jennings who was part of the band (the crickets) that night. Whoever tossed heads was the one who would fly on the plane and avoid the drafty bus that everyone got ill on rolling across the country. After holly won, he jokingly said to Jennings, "I hope your bus freezes up." Jennings joked back to Holly - "I hope your plane crashes." The rest is history.
The small private plane took off on February 3rd at around one in the morning after a show at the Surf Ballroom which starred Holly, The Big Bopper and Richie Valens. The pilot Roger Peterson put the plane on auto pilot unaware of the rough winter weather ahead and the plane crashed in a cornfield in Clear lake, Iowa.
I wasn't alive in 1959 when the crash happened. I'm just a fan like everyone else.
Why the nightmares? I don't know. But I do know this.
The dreams have always been a part of me. They've haunted me every year. I go to sleep and then as it always does, the music dies--in the cold, silent, snow.
So now you know my story. Please, tell no one.
Oh, and there's just one more thing. For the last three days, Holly has visited me in my dreams. Each dream is identical. He stands in my bedroom holding a bouquet of flowers next to a coffin. The top is opened. As I stand from my bed I look in to find it's me lying inside.
You see, yesterday, I was diagnosed with stage four cancer.
I may have only days or weeks to live.
Written by Timagination2
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