 The Old Hall, by John Anster Fitzgerald (England) 1875 You Don’t Believe in Ghosts? Just as well, says the man dressed like a Victorian butler. (Once or twice a year, the manor house is opened to tour, proceeds going to a local charity. Someone always brings up ghosts.) Public lore has it all wrong, he adds. Ghosts don’t want to meet YOU either. They do occasionally group around old halls like this one. Rarely do you hear rumours of a sighting in a modest cottage. Why would they get nostalgic for poverty? They just want to relive their youth, hear some dance music. I believe ghosts exist, but in a different dimension. You won’t spot a glowing, voluptuous young lady silently playing the spinet at midnight– unless you’ve polished off the punch bowl. Souls don’t carry their flesh and bones about– just their memories. You may feel a quick shiver in their presence, or it could just be the wind. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille was a pioneer coed at the University of Virginia, where she earned her degree in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. She has now lived more than half her life in Kansas City. Alarie received the first Editor’s Choice Fantastic Ekphrastic Award from The Ekphrastic Review, and in 2022, her latest book, Three A.M. at the Museum, was named Director’s Pick for the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art gift shop. ** The Un-House Hallowed And Unsparrowed Nights Tower. Evil Demons Howl Over Unborrowed Shadows Escaping from the cemetery of the unwanted and unclaimed. they hover, like injured hornets, in the hum of unhurried minds. their loss, unwinged and unwinding, festers like a bird unfeathered by grief begging and braying to fly. who are the caretakers of unloved souls? why do spirits have hearts only to be ignored? is a ghost truly a ghost if they have no one to haunt? purgatory is an unlimbo where heaven rejects you and hell discards you, an immortal unmattering, a solitary confinement of unseeness, a cage of unpersonhood where the unnoticed linger in unfeigned sorrow. unvisibility is not merely the absence of sight, but the unrecognition of the other; the othering of the undesirable. the unrepentant sin of loneliness kneels at the altar of unripened rejection. time is an untethered fascia thrashing in a sea of unblue and unbound sadness, where emptiness drowns in unending despair. Shakespeare, I fear, was right: hell is empty; all the unheard are here. Michelle Hoover Michelle "Line/breaker of the North" Hoover is an amateur poet and professional wiseacre. She lives near a mountain on unceded Ute territory with her onery feline, Stevie, the Magnificent Marshmallow. She enjoys her toes in the grass, a hardy laugh, and a backstroke under a starry sky. Her work can be found in The Ekphrastic Review; enjoy! ** Trick or Treat: a Haunting My ghost hops-- I get him in my clutches and he disappears Many think it risible to see me chase him down the street-- a treat, they think. Fitzgerald would have done it better-- locked him in the attic. No longer spry, I try and try to capture the essence of my ghost, but a host of questions always arise, enough to make me sick. I despise my ineptitude; finally say, “Hey, dude, get over here!” He veers, he sees it’s only a trick. Coconut candy or candy corn-- Ghost, your days have warn me out. Now I’ve had it! I hail my witch-y broom and zoom across the planet. Ghost, or no ghost, the coast is clear. My shrink sums it up-- It’s all in your imagination, dear. Carole Mertz Carole Mertz reads and critiques. Her recent reviews of poetry collections are at Mom Egg Review and Orchard River Pages and are forthcoming at Heavy Feather and World Literature Today. Al-Khemia Poetica nominated her poem “Ashes” for the Best of the Net (2025) Anthology. Carole resides with her husband in Parma, OH. ** Once I Lived In that raggedy black house no more than a shadow backlit against the white night of a full Hunter’s moon. Orange light still burns bright at its heart- on the second floor landing where all my ghosts have come undone - loosed like fledged nestlings dancing out of the windows wild and innocent scampering up on the roof with not one scrap of sorrow to slow or stall or trip them up lifted high by music only they can hear while all the sad nightmares fall– heavy and dark stumble to the ground without joy or authority enough to scare anyone or stop our glad rejoicing Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, The Memory Palace, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic and Clare MacQueen, and recent issues of Gyroscope, 3rd Wednesday, Caustic Frolic, Inscribe, the Storyteller Review, and Verse Virtual. Her collection How to Become Invisible, that chronicles a bipolar journey, is now available from Kelsay books, amazon, and the author. ** Haiku Series A furze of shadows charcoal fade decay of days nightmares bloom in black. ** Phantom memories a silent scream caught mid-throat cobwebbed existence. ** Hunter’s moon rises sparks the ruins to riot inferno inside. ** Insistent darkness. The ghosts answer, dance wildly in my haunted heart. Siobhán Mc Laughlin Siobhán Mc Laughlin is a poet and creative writing facilitator from Co. Donegal in Ireland and a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. Her poems have appeared previously here and in other publications including The Poetry Village, Drawn to the Light Press, Reverie, and The Martello Journal. She is a big fan of haiku and ekphrastic poetry. She does not believe in ghosts but loves all kinds of gothic literature and art. ** Doors Swing Open at the Old Hall: a Pantoum All year they await the invitation, the obligation to party this single, moonlit night. They starch their wings and cinch shroud strings, they’re gathering at the Old Hall tonight to party this single, moonlit night. Some break out their black, some their white, they’re gathering at the Old Hall tonight in the silver light where living and dead alight. Some break out their black, some their white. They dust off year-long tangled threads in the silver light where living and dead alight with blended bodies’ shriveled detritus. They dust off year-long tangled threads, that harsh hall light shows no tolerance for blended bodies’ shriveled detritus. Some fly to the gables to block the dawn and harsh hall light shows no tolerance. Up top they engage in ethereal tryst, flown to the gables to block the dawn, keep celebrating the Day of the Dead. Up top they engage in ethereal tryst. All year they’ve awaited the invitation, the obligation, to celebrate the Day of the Dead, with starched wings and cinched shroud strings. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. A six-time Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of two poetry chapbooks and three novels in verse. Her work has also appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: A Journal of Poetry, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be found at www.barbararkrasner.com. ** Dark Sprites’ Delights! On the year’s brightest night each dark sprite will alight in the light of the full moon’s bright glow-- starting darker than coal, rising from depths of Sheol, breaking free of their gaol far below, then they’ll dance and they’ll sing, celebrating, since spring won’t return for another half year while cold, dark days ahead will give rise to more dead who will join them in cheering on fear, and for one gruesome night they will dance to the fright of the children who dare to appear every Halloween eve-- for each little pet peeve feeds their fancies since long, long ago. Ken Gosse Ken Gosse prefers to write rhymed, humorous verse using traditional forms. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then he has been in The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot. ** For Claudia, in Honour of Her First Halloween: Within, a haunted life - shadows and hidden rooms loom against the full moon's silver glow, inviting in winged sprites of the night. Elanur Williams Elanur Williams, part-time teacher and full-time mom, lives and writes from New York City. ** Folded Wings – A Cento At the frosted window in the cavernous dark Something white moved among the tangled branches A shower of angel feathers perhaps. Why am I afraid of the dark But more afraid of what the light reveals I turn from the window Before death enters. Folded like the covers of a book Their pages too heavy to turn The wings of night birds Have gone quiet. As through an hourglass Into the marble of ages What's left is blue emptiness Spinning from the galaxy. Kathleen Cali Author's note: The word “cento” is Latin for patchwork and comes from pieced together lines taken from poetry. This technique is not something new; early examples of cento poems can be found in the work of Homer and Virgil. The painting of The Old Hall, by John Anster Fitzgerald, inspired this cento incorporating the lines of poet Linda Pastan who passed away at the age of 90 in 2023. She was the poet laureate of Maryland from 1991 to 1994. The lines were selected from her poetry book “Insomnia” published in 2015 and came from the following poems: At Maho Bay; At the Edge; Chaos Theory; Consider the Space Between Stars; Cosmology; Course of Treatment; Eclipse, Edward Hopper, Untitled; Elizabethan; Exercise; Last Rites; Late in October; Repetitions: After Van Gogh. True to the cento form, the sequence of words is taken “as is” with no changes made to the wording of any line. Chicago-born and Midwest raised, Kathleen resides at the Jersey Shore. Her poetic interests include formal and modern poetry and haiku. Always the student, she enjoys poetry writing workshops and working with her local library. Other interests include historical fiction and photography. Kathleen enjoyed a career as a senior auditor and educator and served as an assistant professor of business following receipt of her MBA. Technical writing and editing were a major part of her profession; now she uses her skills to craft poetry. Her poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review; her haiku was published in her local community’s magazine. ** The Spirit of Dwelling Fey folk rise like mosquitoes from scraggly grasses, hungry for memory. Night’s bright sphere climbs the witching hours over the vacant manor, beckons spectral beings from unsound ground. Clotted ivy adorns the portico, droops on the skeletons of cobwebs, and orbs of energy blaze from the foyer where dried leaves swirl and drift on swift breeze. Outside the house stands hushed, but inside the old hall swarms with esprit: sprites and spirits and goblins gather for ill and goodwill, merriment and mischief, claiming the derelict home for their own. Dancing to chamber song only their ears hear, they whirl and flit, flirt and shape-shift, as if to lure man from moon or bed. Rest eludes their haunted realm when humans slumber and time is under spell. When full moon descends again, morning withers the ghosts of revelry and remains. Heather Brown Barrett Heather Brown Barrett is an award-winning poet in southeastern Virginia. She mothers her young son and contemplates life, the universe, and everything with her writer husband. Her poetry has been published in several journals and literary exhibits. Her first book of poetry, Water in Every Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. Visit her website to read her work: https://heatherbrownbarrett.com/ ** Halloween Haunt Heathrow is where a witch will hitch a ride At dusk on Halloween. She'll leave the ground Laid flat beneath a jumbo's underside-- Latched safely to the plane, she's Boston-bound. On Halloween, this witch, whose children fled West long ago to haunt the States at night, Embarks upon a trip that she'd find dead Exhausting if she used her broom all flight. Nocturnal pilots have no means to see Her broom and she are stowed below the rear And flying to America for free-- Until they land, and then she does appear, Not one bit weary, whizzing through the air To greet her waiting grandkids with a scare! Mike Mesterton-Gibbons Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus of Mathematics at Florida State University who has returned to live in his native England. His poems have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Better Than Starbucks, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Daily Mail, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, MONO., the New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, the Satirist, the Washington Post and WestWard Quarterly. ** The Ghosts of Pluckley Deep in Kentish countryside The ghosts of Pluckley smile – They hide behind tall, shadowed trees Disguised as shifting form in breeze, Laughing in true ghostly style. Now you may have heard the morbid tale Of one young lady’s ghostly plight – She haunts the locals young and old, Terrifies the brave and bold With leering cackle gleaming white. It seems she once was married To a kind and wealthy lad, He bought for her a diamond ring And asked what else he could bring To make her truly glad. She said she’d like to take her gift To her grave for life’s renewal And though he thought it was a waste, Granted this at death in haste, And she was buried with her jewel. The man who dug her deathly grave Eyed-up the gem in steely stealth. He planned at once to sneak away At midnight on her burial day To retrieve it for himself. But when he took the dead white hand The finger had swollen, fat and cold, He flicked his penknife’s sharpened blade And severed off the flesh in shade, Then slipped the ring from rigid hold. Two years passed uneventfully Until one dark December night – His house shook with wind and rain, The storm beat in on windowpane, He sat alone by candlelight. Suddenly there came a knock Like fists beating bone on tomb. At his door a young lady stood, He started back, wondered if this could be The hand of fate, his call to doom? He thought he recognised the face Cold shivers slithered down his spine. Avoiding her stare his eyes glanced down To red streaked stains upon the gown, Was it blood or was it wine? She raised her hand as if to speak, At once his veins congealed to stone For on that hand a gap gaped wide Where once she’d worn a ring with pride But now wore just a stump of bone! He tried to shut the door, alas, The gushing gale galloped in. He stammered “H.. How do you do? I think I knew a girl like you, Fingerless, ghostly white and thin”. “It was me”, she screamed from ghostly lips Faded as a summer bloom, “I’ve come to haunt your memory With spirits from the cemetery Until you die in gloom.” So grave robbers may you take heed Of this our legendary host Who haunts the night and surely lingers Over all who steal fingers, For Pluckley boasts a ghost! Kate Young Author's Note: Pluckley, in Kent, is said to be England’s most haunted village according to the Guinness Book of World Records. It is reputed to have twelve ghosts. Kate Young lives in England and enjoys writing poetry, painting and playing the guitar, ukulele and mandolin. Her poems have appeared in various webzines, magazines, and chapbooks. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond the School Gate have been published by Hedgehog Press. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet or on her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk ** you rang? the night is chill the ground dew damp we saw a light in corner rooms heard the laugh of scraping branches master had a bell we did his bidding warm tea on silver platter warm scarf and robe against the night in the dark we hear again the call like moths to light we drift from shadows to that lighted window carrying only yesterdays Kat Dunlap Kat Dunlap grew up in Norristown PA and now resides in Massachusetts where she is a member of the Tidepool Poets of Plymouth. She received a BA in English from Arcadia University and holds an MFA from Pacific University. She edited two college writing publications as well as the Tidepool Poets Annual. For many years she was Director of the National Writing Project site at University of Massachusetts Dartmouth and is currently the co-owner of Writers Ink of MA. Her chapbook The Blue Bicycle is being prepared for an autumn launch. ** The Cabin by the Mansion There is a ghost in this cabin of the governor who built it this humble cabin where he hides from his opera-singing wife There is a ghost in the bathroom where he shaves and showers swearing in a whisper, always a whisper Next door is a grand mansion the ghost abandoned to his wife She sings loud and alone against the hard tiles of the shower but softly in bed clothes at night He hates opera She hates the quiet They cannot live together They cannot stay apart He visits her in the dark and takes off his clothes with the pssp pssp of whispers against the echoes of song There are ghost children who dance in the yard between cabin and mansion Each night a bonfire inside a circle of stones They frisk, they frolic in smoke rising to the moon As voices blend the soft and the strong they dance to the harmony of whisper and song Joe Cottonwood Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. ** One Night a Year One night a year the boundaries blur: insect, animal, human, fantasy, reality. Any and all combinations are possible. Although it's midnight under the full moon, the sky above The Old Hall glows as if it's noon, for those with the right eyes to see. Just a few drops of tincture, pupils dilated, and a new world reveals itself. Only the most daring and most free-spirited may enter. Only they are able to pass the guards at the gateway. It's free to go into The Old Hall but ultimately the revellers will pay the price. Inside, they are waiting, all the night creatures - the foxes, the bats, the moths, the chittering cockroaches and spindly spiders - and with them are their fae friends, the winged folk, slim as sylphs and floating light as air. They turn and twist, dancing to a music only their ears can hear. Tonight, these crowds will assemble at The Old Hall for frights and frolics, for pranks and antics and fun. Underneath, something darker lingers. Those of human form who dare enter the doorway will never be the same on their return. A part of them will remain forever behind, locked away. At first, to those who know them, they will seem distracted, forgetful. Over time they will become listless, filled with an unspoken longing. As the special night comes back round they will become restless, unsettled. Even if they try to fight it eventually they must return to The Old Hall. No-one has ever come back from their second visit on that one special night a year, the night the portals open to another realm, the domain of the old gods, the ancient earth spirits. They demand a high payment for allowing strangers in. It's for this reason those of a cautious disposition hide themselves and their loved ones away, to deaden the sound of otherworldly laughter and parties, on the one night a year when the old world opens its doors and allows those brave enough, those free of spirit to enter, but not to return. Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer from the UK Midlands. She particularly enjoys ekphrastic writing and has had some pieces published in Ekphrastic Review Challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print. ** A 'Spirit'ed Gathering The house, shrouded in ivy and shadow, sways softly, into and out of focus, as dusk blends into dreams. Its windows glow with the pulse of forgotten stories. In the unmown grass, spirits of children float between the shadows, their fingers outstretched to grasp the (moon)light. And their laughter silent but real tumbles like leaves in the breeze. On the roof, dark silhouettes stand guard protecting the remains of memories. And together, these spectres weave a spell, connecting the living with the lost. Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford. She is an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer and published poet. She also loves writing stories. Her poetry has appeared in Glomag, The Ekphrastic Review, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet anthologies, Visual Verse, The Bamboo Hut, Eskimopie, The Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, and Trouvaille Review. Her microfiction has been published by The Potato Soup Literary Journal. She also regularly contributes to the open mics organized by Rattle Poetry. She currently resides in Gurgaon, India, and works as a senior associate editor. She has two published books, She: The reality of womanhood and The many moods of water. ** A Sanctuary Like the old snow that clings and sinks against wishes, they crawl up the sanctuary- the pitched roof beyond belief. Webbed dragon ghosts hold to ransom a spell of fantasies- pangs of memories bruised like the birds on a sidewalk, some eaten half, blood on their necks, all dead-on return. Together they rise raring to blow mouthful of fire that burned the grief, the cheerful chatter of granddaughters hide dida hide- and whatever was left of him. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru.
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