A Horror Poem Beneath the willow tree’s mourning veil, A child whispered, small and pale. “Grant me peace,” her soft voice pled, The branches sighed, the sky turned red. Leaves like tears began to fall, As roots crept close to heed her call. The ground hummed low, the air grew tight, Her shadow swayed in ghostly light. Now every dusk, the willow weeps, For what it keeps, and what it eats. By E. M. Page

A Childhood memory I was scared to death of zombies when I was a young child. You see, I had brothers who were several years older than me who would sit in the family room to watch scary movies together. I was always expressly forbidden to watch them because my parents worried I would be too scared. They were right. I used to hide behind a chair, sneak under the coffee table, or even peak through the door crack just to get a look at what was on the screen. Seeing those undead