Zombie Road

Zombie Road

A Poem by Al R. Arce
"

This poem is based on the stories around the most haunted place in Missouri, Zombie Road

"

Once upon a foggy night, while I wondered for curious sights

On forests carved by Meramec’s waters, where Chiron once collected his offers

There laid old Lawler Ford Road, an impassable trail of sorrow

Where to vanished old Glencoe, mysterious creatures for shelter go.

“Many stories this road holds” the stranger told me in cold words.

“Not too many dare to cross, for fear of who watches, waits or follows.

No two trips dare be the same, for length or curves, to or from, point’s dead end,

Yet if you dare to make a dare, I’ll walk you through the forest’s stare.”

 

Too dark to see front or rear, I thought no more from his deep stare,

With no hesitation in his respiration, we defied the old the road’s temptation.

As we began our journey through the dark, any sound the silence was quick to dwarf.

Foliage wrapped the sky above, while clawed branches reached close to touch.

The coldness  punctured deeper our bones, the ground had no feel on our toes.

“Fear not what you can’t see, for those you’ll see are the ones to plea,

The mound builders will be first to feel, then some Osage, or Shawnee,

Still looking for flint, fish or game, this was and still is their land to claim.”

 

Soon into our defiance, petroglyphs dancing as nymphs to ancient drum beats,

The look of 80,000 eyes turned the road darker as they wrapped us with their gaze.

The laughter of drunken souls gather round burning coals as we neared Hamilton’s post

No redskins, no whites, all shared the color ash, as the coals faint light faded fast.

A water mill’s sound, that once was but is no more, tanning smells elating all around.

Soon reality seemed afar, as if afloat and not a walk, as our master was the road. 

Everything became alive, trees, ground, air and we were only toys of the road.

We saw as the road morphed seeming to be a maze, not willing to let us go.

 

Through the intoxicating haze, bodies of the old Home Guard from deep raised

Shooting errant slugs to the Rebel Bend incoming, engaging in eternal slaughter.

Enclosed within battling spirits, spilling blood & guts over long forgotten answers.

Our cold sweat drenched our clothes and fed our dread, as we ran ahead.

We ran and ran, until we welcomed the silence back as an embracing friend.

Our hearts pounding and our lungs stinging from Fall’s cold, wet, drowning night air.

As we get composed, we see the hazy shapes of shacks and ramshackle homes.

Long abandoned, near the river’s edge, where an ancient railroad adorned its fringe.

 

Our visions turned to long gone residents who refused to leave their place of peace.

An old woman screams from a doorway; others walking leisurely, without decay…

Walking the abandoned line, translucent woman glowing in white-bluish light,

walks back and forth waiting for the spur line, not knowing she’s out of time.

Suddenly, out of nowhere the St. Louis arrives, carrying on flat beds many gone lives

To the Glencoe tracks sharp bends, they’re welcomed by Della to their unknown end.

Back towards the narrow winding lane, out on the distance from where we came

The Yeatman-Carr fires light up the night, yet no soul is disturbed by the lights.

 

My overwhelmed senses begging escape, I ask my companion to leave this remain.

No hesitation we swiftly go back, leaving behind, the once bustling river bank.

The shadow men continue to trace back our steps, while the road stubbornly it’s curse kept

The road was longer, winding, the trees closer, tearing skin, we were out of breath

There was no end when suddenly a cottage emerged with youngsters unchecked

Though the cottage we hadn’t before seen, the place was no place for those teens.

They looked at me, then my companion, and full of laughter they enquire,

 “Who’s the new one you bring to play?  We thought you were done with those days!”

 

My companion, sweating, his face pulled back, looked wildly at me…

“I was not looking for new breed, this one happened to be here!”

“Who are you?” my companion asked full of fright, hoping all was just a trick.

“I am the one dubbed Zombie, they named this road for me and if I’m not misguided

A teenager you are still!” I answered as my bloodied gown was brought to me.

The shadow men got to him, a frozen stare, wide open eyes, hair standing on end

As I felt his inner warmth run through my hand, I savored his essence being trapped

For I am the current master, the one that goads this lost stretch called Zombie Road.


© 2013 Al R. Arce



Author's Note

Al R. Arce
I am not much of a horror writer. Did this one for a contest (I see those as challenges). The subject matter was easy for me to select. I had to look into other writers and picked Poe's The Raven for structure and cadence; Donne's Apparition for ambiance; Kurtz's The Hollow Men for story telling; and Kipling's The Vampire for the twist at the end. I am not looking to win any prizes, I just wanted to write a respectable horror poem. Hope you enjoy it. Your reviews will be greatly appreciated!

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Featured Review

brutal twist at the end of this - loved the bit of a run through history lesson - this poem touching on the fact that the road has long been haunted. Thought that was brilliant. Horror is an odd genre. I've only written a few horror pieces myself - its not my forte but its nice to stretch the muscles - and I wouldn't have known you weren't a horror writer if you hadn't 'fessed up' to it.

Posted 4 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.




Reviews

Fantastic! And I loved that it was set in Saint Louis! I think you really captured the feeling in this one.

Posted 4 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Wow,, this is good. Well written, nicely creepy and I think good horror!
I liked the story line in this poem. I must say excellent work on this!

Posted 4 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

brutal twist at the end of this - loved the bit of a run through history lesson - this poem touching on the fact that the road has long been haunted. Thought that was brilliant. Horror is an odd genre. I've only written a few horror pieces myself - its not my forte but its nice to stretch the muscles - and I wouldn't have known you weren't a horror writer if you hadn't 'fessed up' to it.

Posted 4 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.


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Added on September 23, 2013
Last Updated on October 5, 2013
Tags: Mystery, horror, ghost, urban legend

Author

Al R. Arce
Al R. Arce

St. Louis, MO



About
I'm in my 50's. My family is my life. Writing is my hobby. I hope you find here something that you enjoy. Constructive comments are welcomed. If you ask me to read something I will. Thank you for.. more..

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