Black Stone Hill

by Scott Slemmons

The clutter of autumn leaves

crunch beneath my feet

as I walk through this tiny wood

The sun is setting so slow

& the sky is red like a pool of blood

The wind is rising

carrying secret spices from Egypt

& whispering promises in my ears

I have heard stories

old, old stories

of a faceless woman in white

who screams at travelers who pass near

I see no ethereal woman

I hear no wordless shrieks

I keep walking

I keep crunching dry leaves

Elsewhere, crowds are entering high school stadiums

buying popcorn & pickles

cheering the home team

as they huddle closer in the chill

I have only myself

just myself & the house

which has appeared at

the top of the next hill

It looks like a bad horror movie cliché

all cobwebs & creaking shutters & shadow

I have heard stories

of glowing eyes in dark closets

of unclean laughter in the attic

of black magic rites

I have heard old stories

of men driven mad overnight

of vanishings

of black birds & chuckling fog

I step into this living Halloween decoration

close the door

& wait for the night

I have heard all the old stories

Why else would I be here?

© 1999 by Scott Slemmons

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