Spirits in a Cemetery by Nomar Knight

Ye who, passing graves by night,

Glance not to the left nor right,

Lest a spirit should arise,

Cold and white, to freeze your eyes...

~James Russell Lowell, "The Ghost-Seer"

Spirits in a Cemetery

By Nomar Knight

The mind claims a trickery of light

To explain ghosts roaming at night

Frozen in a state of awe

Confirmed by a crow's caw

Should you be inclined to run

You'll miss out on all the fun

Cemeteries aren't just for the idle dead

Nor an apparition without a head

When at last you try to move

Scary thoughts kill your groove

If a hand reaches for your booze

The ghost just wants to shmooze

Perhaps he's you're only friend

Since the living only pretend

Share your spirit if you can

For once he was a man

Who sang and drank and bled

But now your new friend's dead

Don't tell a soul of your new mate

They'll insist that ghosts don't date

Secrets are better kept not shared

It's not like you were dared

To stroll upon the solemn grounds

Amidst white shadows and hell hounds

So drink up now and cheers to you

No more loneliness or feeling blue

Two happy drunks are better than one

Who knew that cemeteries were fun

Just be sure to go back home

Lest you become a ghost that roams

©2015 Nomar Knight. All rights reserved.

A Nomar Knight Poem.

Don't Be Afraid

Note the ghost in the attic

Don't Be Afraid

By Nomar Knight

Don't be afraid

Voices whisper in the night

Rooms creak to life

Darkness hides sinister creatures

Don't be afraid

Fear unleashes evil

Heartbeats pound senseless

Muffled screams prick your ears

Don't be afraid

You're never really alone

Something waits for you

Death's stench closes in

Don't be afraid

To open your eyes

See the impossible

Cry if you must

Don't be afraid

To soak in all the terror

Listen to the blood curdling screams

Fight off the urge to run

Don't be afraid

Of all that is coming

For nothing can hurt you

Because you're dead

©2012 Nomar Knight. All rights reserved.

A Knight Chills Poem.

Strangers Among Us

 

 

Strangers Among Us

By Nomar Knight

He’s back.  You know; the unexpected visitor.  At first I thought it was a moving shadow that was the result of the changing screens on the television.  One dark scene changed to a lighter one.  My lights are usually turned off when I watch the boob tube.  But when the shadow moves and then it becomes distinctively clear and I realize shadows don’t behave like that, my mind is forced to deal with a strange kind of reality. 

In the old days I’d be afraid to admit this stuff.  I recall younger days when I attended the old parochial school.  I hated being alone in the back stage area.  A mean bald guy would yell at me.  “You’re ready to go on in one minute!”

I’d answer dumbly, “Go on where?”

“To perform on stage, dummy!”

Then one of my classmates would tap my shoulder and my heart would shift from my chest all the way up to my mouth and back again.  Soon I would hear my friend ask, “Who are you talking to?”

“The loudmouth bald guy,” then I’d point at the mean guy whose eyes would make me feel as if my life’s essence were in danger. 

“What are you talking about?  There’s no one else here but us.”

Yep, old places weren’t always fun places for me to visit.  Hospitals were bad on account of all the sadness lingering in certain wards, like the ICU.  I could feel death roam the halls and soon after, the weeping would begin. 

To get back to my visitor, I watched him, awed by how he hadn’t changed much.  He was a young 22 year old who got shot in his leg and bled to death.  He had an affinity for a certain married relative of mine.  He haunted her dreams, begged her to kill herself so they’d be together.  I challenged him on his selfish desire.  It went something like this:

Me: Why do you want her to kill herself?

Ghost: Because we should be together forever.  I was too young to die.

Me: It’s not for you to determine when you die.  She has plenty of time left.

Ghost: So I’ll wait till she comes to her senses.  I love her.

Me: You only love yourself.  If you really loved her, you’d let her live her life.

The ghost stared at me as if I had stabbed him with a sharp instrument.  I guess the truth hurts more when you refuse to see it, even after your time expires. 

Ghost: But it’s not fair!

Me: I agree, but it’s how it’s supposed to be.  Do us all a favor, say goodbye and step into the light.

Ghost: But it’s not fair.  We were supposed to be together.

I wanted to pat his shoulder and console him.  His defiant eyes gave way to awareness, then remorse. 

Ghost: It’s so hard.

Me: I know, but she needs to live a normal life.

He said goodbye to me.  It took him another month before he said farewell to her in a dream. 

Even as I type these words, I’m aware of other visitors who stop by.  Some are constantly observing, others reminisce about the life they used to live.  I wish I could shut the door on these events though some of my friends don’t know why I want to do that.  I guess I want some semblance of normalcy, whatever that is.  On most nights I can keep the door closed.  However, tonight, the ghosts want attention.  One opened the kitchen cabinets and left them that way.  Another knocks on wooden furniture. 

So I say these magic words, which sometimes help me seal off the other side.  “When I close this laptop, the spiritual door shuts with it for in my case, ignorance is bliss.”

Have you experienced these type of unwanted visitors? If so, how do you cope with it?

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2011. All rights reserved.

A Knight Chills presentation.

Bedside Ghost by Kotaro

Bedside Ghost
by Kotaro




Two hundred years of peace and prosperity had changed the samurai to seek the pleasures of the flesh.


Satomi was in the prime of life and she lived in fear.


There was no safer place than where she was; under the huge roof of the main temple of the Zen sect. NO ghost would dare enter to disturb her prayers. Yet, her conscious created vivid images of the ghost that shattered her sleep into shards that carved away what peace the Buddha had molded with her prayers.


Tatsunori Motoki let out a heavy breath as he looked into the lazy waters of the river. He lifted the rod and noticed he'd been fooled again. Certainly, this was a sign of the misfortune that was plaguing his life. His wife, Satomi, had bought a kimono that was of a quality beyond what his income could afford no matter how hard she had been saving. She had been careful enough to get his permission before buying the kimono, yet he knew better; someone had surely bought it for her.


This seed of suspicion was now a vine constricting all his thoughts and actions. Day after day, he could think of little else and his administrative duties at the magistrate's public office was found lacking. He was given three days off and told to come back with heart and mind free to concentrate.


His most honorable ancestors were certainly yelling at him to show some samurai spirit, confront her with his suspicions, and slay her. Yet, Tatsunori blamed himself, for he still loved her with a deep passion. The outline of her body under her nightwear or the scent of her perfume sent him into a heart thumping need. His most urgent desire was to send her into uncontrollable ecstasy, yet, after two years of marriage, he had still to achieve anything near it. Satomi now refused him more often than not, and when she did accept, he sensed it was with resignation.


This morning when he told her of his vacation, she asked him to catch some fish for dinner while she did the housework and shopped. She had prepared him a simple lunch, and so he was here under a willow tree. He removed the moist cloth covering his small basket of bait. Somehow, the worms disgusted him. He emptied it into the river. Wrapping the line around the pole, he pushed the hook into the wood then headed back home.


The morning fog still hugged the ground in places like puddles after rain. Soon, they would dissipate as he wished his gloom would. Tatsunori still had the rice balls Satomi had packed. Feeling bored, he took one out of its wrapping of bamboo bark to munch on as he walked. He hoped to get home before Satomi went shopping, for he needed to tell her there wouldn't be any fish. As he gulped down the last of his lunch, he saw the door of his home slide open. Satomi stepped out. Not wanting to shout, he quickened his pace to overtake her. At the first corner, she turned west. The market was east. Where was she going? Was she so brazen to meet her secret lover when he was off from work? He determined to find out.


She walked and walked, finally leaving the outskirts of town. Soon, she would reach the sea. Then, he saw where she wanted to be, a secluded shack just above the dunes. Hiding behind the last tree, he watched till she disappeared into the shack. He bit his nails, and agonized over what action to take. Minutes past, at last, he stepped out into the open and rushed to see the truth. His chest leaned forward and his sandals kicked sand to his thighs, so hard he ran. He was nearly there when he dropped to his knees. Resembling a wary crab, he
approached and stopped beneath a window. The paper covering its wooden lattice was old and torn.


He paused with his back against the wall, his heart pounding in his ears, yet it couldn't drown the heavy pants of exertion and cries of delight coming from within. Turning, he inched upward to the window till his eyes peered through a rent to stare in erotic horror at Satomi astride her prone lover. He watched unable and unwilling to wrench his eyes away till she reached the peak of ecstasy and collapsed forward over the body that should have been his. Tears flowed as he cried out in shame and anger.


His cries alerted the couple. Satomi rose off her lover and crept to the window. Peering through a tattered square, she gasped as she recognized her husband, "It's Tatsunori. Quick, kill him!"


Tatsunori raced to the door, his sword raised. As he slid the door open, a blade ripped into his gut. Pushed to the ground, the sword cut through his back and plunged into the sand. His face grimaced into a devil's mask of anguish. His hand gripped the blade impaling him. Blood spilled out of his mouth as he struggled with each breath, "Satomi, curse you!".


They gutted him from groin to throat like a fish, rowed out to sea, and released him into the cool waters of the bay. As the waves rolled over his body, his jaws opened and closed as if struggling to speak before he sank.


Returning to shore, they waded through the surf to cleanse their bodies of blood. They rushed into the shack. Murder was oil to the flames within their loins; their cries and moans the line and bait of a devil that lured Tatsunori’s soul away from the realm of eternal peace.


It's said that Satomi had one more tryst with her lover, and that they saw Tatsunori's ghost looking down upon them, his kimono swaying, as if floating among the waves. Worse of all was the leer on his lips and the glow in his eyes.


Satomi prayed till her death to assuage her husband's spirit. Yet, it found no peace, only a need to watch guided its existence, as it roamed the earth for the sounds of sexual pleasure.


They say, as the decades passed, the ghost slowly faded. Yet, if you feel a chilly breeze while entwined with your lover, it just might be the heavy breathing of the bedside ghost.


The End




I got this idea after going to a temple that has a gallery of ghost paintings used as props by a rakuten artist. Rakuten is the Japanese art of verbal story telling. He would have the paintings hanging in the background as he told his chilly tales. You can see some of them at http://www.theway.jp/zen/flash/yuureiga.swf


© Copyright 2010 Kotaro All rights reserved. Kotaro has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.


Thanks Kotaro for sharing that spooky story. You can find other stories by this gifted author in Writing.com

Ghostly Visits

The dead don't play by the rules of the living; they don't play at all. - The Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight

Ghosts roam the halls of the living. What you think is a shadow or a trick of light just may be a former human testing the limitations set forth by mortality. Surely, you’re not one of those people that lie awake at night because you sense you’re not alone. You hear footsteps on the wooden floors. You see movement by the closed window. My question to you is: why should this worry you?

Some people's experiences with ghostly apparitions tend to be limited because they do a wonderful job of shutting out the distractions. Sometimes they're tempted to think ghosts like playing games with us foolish mortals, but the reality may be that they have trouble communicating with the living. Let’s face facts; many people prefer to live a simple life, oblivious to other worldly possibilities. Is it really better to turn a blind eye to the existence of ghosts?

Those who have had ghostly encounters may feel that the apparitions should have been off to some magical paradise, but instead felt compelled to either enlist their assistance or tie up loose ends. Smirk all you will, we can’t see air but we know it’s there. Just because you’re not sensitive to your surroundings doesn’t mean ghosts aren’t real.

There’s another theory that explains ghosts. Some believe in alternate universes and they say when a hole hits the fabric of reality, we can see the other beings as if they were ghosts. Sounds like something entertaining to write about, but that explanation doesn’t hold water for me. Many believe we go somewhere when we die and I prefer to keep an open mind to the possibility of life after death. This is not an attempt to convince skeptics, for they will believe what they want to believe. Instead, this an attempt at starting a conversation about possibilities and perhaps help form a theory that could explain the phenomena of ghosts.

Got to go now. Oh, what's that I see? Is it a familiar face now a shadow? Perhaps a ghost is waiting for me to listen. Have fun if you care to uncover a mystery that may only get answered when we move on to another realm.

Nomar Knight

Mystical Attractions

Have you ever found yourself asking, "What was that?" A shadow or some play of lighting appearing out of nowhere, moving strangely. If you were with someone, perhaps the other person witnessed the same event, but nine times out of ten, the experience is a lonely one. Expect of course, the mystical shadow that you swear is watching you.

The reality of death has given birth to life after death. Cynics argue against such possibilities yet are at a lost for explaining appearances of ghosts or similar phenomena.

Take this eye witness account: I was driving down the highway late at night in a secluded section surrounded by trees, no lights posted anywhere. My high beams picked up a teenage boy riding a bike, heading straight for me. I didn't have time to react so I braced myself for the inevitable contact. It never came. What I thought was a kid on a bike turned out to be a transparent ghost. My car drove straight through. No physical contact was made, no one reporting an accident the next day, nor did my car have a mark on it.

The man did not sleep that night, worried the authorities would be knocking on his door. He tried to talk himself into believing he must have been sleeping, but he recalled enough details about the encounter consistent with an accident of that type. His slow reaction time due to disbelief and a strange opaqueness surrounding the object in question left him wondering about his mental state. He went from surprise, disbelief, shock, and eventually rationalization.

While the aforementioned encounter is pretty typical for those experiencing contact with mystical origins, it's quite spectacular when the living interact with the dead. I wrote a story based on a legend that spans centuries from numerous countries. Its underlying theme deals with obsession when the main character, Lisa, goes through extraordinary lengths to experience her first college dance. Her partner demonstrates a different kind of obsession. Mystical Attractions aside, The Dance features unfinished business between a mother and her daughter.

Supernatural horror involves many different aspects of a fear that instead of its victims running away from predators or unusual foes, they become willing participants in macabre acts. Encounters connected to the mysterious realm of an afterlife intrigue many and opens the genre to very creative works.

Have you ever had an encounter with a ghost?- Tell me about it.