Fog rises from graves
like hands wet with blood
obscuring the Wild Hunt
racing across autumn sky
toward the gathering townsfolk
standing all-round the bonfire
at the last harvest feast
on All Hallow’s Eve night
while bold trick-or-treaters
who should long-since be home
sneak up the front steps
of that dark shuttered house
at the end of the street
where unearthly sounds
issue forth at midnight
just to see the pale figure
of the girl dressed in white
pass by the front window
with her one flickering candle
and her misshapen mouth
like it’s frozen mid-scream
recalling the night
when they say that a mob
of the villagers led
by a misguided preacher
to hide his own sin
dragged the innocent girl
into the town square
and called her a witch
then burned her alive
while the townsfolk looked on
but that Halloween night
when the veil between worlds
thins to near non-existence
the teenagers heard
from the mouth of that figure
a strange incantation
and so filled with dread
they ran back to the square
where the people had gathered
as impenetrable fog
enveloped the town
and she took her revenge
on her killer’s descendants
for the fog turned to smoke
and the fires to inferno
and when it was over
just ashes remained
but they say ever after
on Halloween night
a ghost light appears
in the village square
and the spirits of villagers
dance in the fire
as a pale girl laughs
and children weep.
Mark Hendrickson (he/him/his) is a gay poet and writer in the Des Moines area using words to navigate the Sturm und Drang of daily life. A 2024 Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, his words appear in McNeese Review, Vestal Review, Ekphrastic Review, and others. He has advanced degrees in music, health information management, and marriage & family therapy. Mark worked for many years on an acute psychiatric unit. Follow him @MarkHPoetry, or visit his website: www.markhendricksonpoetry.com.
Published 10/30/25