My other horror poem influenced by the themes of H. P. Lovecraft. The Pact of Quentin McCade The horror house of Quentin McCade Stands in the shadows of an old Oak glade. No living soul has lived in there for years Since the strange events stirred the gruesome fears. No one ventures near the abandoned place Even crows fly by at a frightened pace. Rumours abound that a dark pact was made Between an elder god and old McCade. McCade so dreaded his mortal life’s end, In old occult books, hours he would spend Searching for answers to escape his fate. Using arcane chants he called through the gate That opens from here to another place, Another time, and an alien space. But through the gate malicious horrors came From eons long passed and stars without name. A horrible being of malignant hate Crossed time and space through this occult gate. He heard McCade’s call, thus he found the door To this universe where his horde could pour. His name was too horrid for human ears His appearance was the depth of our fears. To avoid death and regain youth at least McCade offered to channel for the beast. With human blood McCade signed a dark pact. To keep the gate open by his foul act, Of repeating the spell once each hour. To keep the gate open was his power. If the occult words were uttered too late Dimensional forces would close the gate, Trapping the monsters in the old man’s place Where all of them would rage, scream, stalk, and pace. Alien hordes came into McCade’s home Hoping to cross a world where they could roam. A second verse was needed to go out Of McCade’s old mansion, the world to scout. But the old man choked on the words so rife Then Malice, by the pact, took McCade’s life. The evil horde from past eons and space Ever will rage and remain in that place. Those who dared enter, rarely came out. Those who escaped, could only scream and shout. They rapidly aged and shrivelled to dust Piles of debris from bodies once robust. They now lie scattered on the near sidewalks But of those inside no one ever talks. Yet on dark Moonless nights one may still hear The horrible cries and the screams of fear. Be warned, that if you walk down that black road In the dead of night past that cursed abode, Walk lively, walk fast, walk at your best pace. But most of all, do not look at that place. Avert your eyes from where the nightmare dreams. Cover your ears to the blood curdling screams. Two centuries have passed since that dark eve When Quentin McCade took unearthly leave.
Posted on: Thu, 20 Jun 2013 00:17:17 +0000
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