CONTENT NOTE: Strong language, graphic descriptions of animal mutilation, and intense scenes of peril.
dark brown irises;
canines bared in frozen growl—
chest splayed north to south.
Immediately I begin to retch at the sight of it. Procyon lotor, also known as the common raccoon, lying there in a most unnatural position. Its eyes staring back up at me as if I am torturing it with excruciating malice. What sick fuck would do this? Satanic cult? The animal is lying belly up, all fours locked in pushup position, as if flash-frozen while clawing and pushing something off. I can barely look, but I can’t look away.
sliced with precision—
the fall weather’s cutting cold—
entrails riverbed.
What brings me here are complaints—all from the locals—about “weird activity” in “Devil’s Alley” as they like to call it. Of course, Devil’s Alley was no more than an abandoned, rural, transient community built at the turn of the twentieth century as a home for migrant workers for Mercy Falls City’s watershed. The community had its own school and was segregated from the rest of society. It lasted this way for nearly seventy or eighty years; however, suddenly, the community was shut down, people got up and left, and the houses have remained abandoned ever since. Local lore says that a Satanic Cult uses this village for human sacrifices—it even got reported on the nightly news—but nothing has ever been substantiated. Nothing has…
its teeth clenched in fear,
eyes popping from their sockets—
the rot fills my nose.
Retching becomes regurgitation. Splattered. Wiping the bile from my mouth and cheeks, I move away from the horrid sight and toward the house in front of me. A two-story, white clapboard-sided worker’s house, its wooden siding was a hue of rotten white from years of abandonment and deterioration.
the house looms above—
a chill picks up in the air—
lady beetles move.
AAAAAH! I jumped through the door the second I saw the exterior siding move. Asian lady beetles, commonly misidentified as “ladybugs”, are known for invading old houses; however, I have never seen so many of them and…that sight…it got to me, I must admit. I am just glad I chose to come alone and didn’t bring Joey with me. That bastard would have had the whole department wired in for the occasion! Sometimes it really is good to get a chance to be a lone wolf.
the mold of autumn
overtaking the stale house…
there…a fly swatter.
Just hanging there on the wall. Next to it a family photograph, framed, just hanging there to contain the ghosts it portrays. The town has records of the watershed closing down the worker’s village in the mid-1990s, the workers presumably went elsewhere for work; however, there is no official record as to why Mercy Falls City Watershed shut the village down to begin with. Since that time, it has remained here abandoned, prone to vandal, arson, and punk kids seeking the next haunted house. I’ve been back here before to chase after those twerps, and have responded to one building being burnt down; however, this is the first time I’ve ever been inside.
floor boards are creaking.
the living room is furnished.
blanket on the couch.
The deeper into the house I walk, the more uneasy I feel. It is as if the air is becoming so thin that every movement feels taxed—no!—vexed. Standing here, unable to move, I follow the dimmed, naturally lit room with my eyes, icy-hot from the cold sweat now rolling down my brows and into them. There’s something off about this whole place. First, the fly swatter? Who the fuck just leaves a goddamn fly swatter on the wall. I’m sorry, but really?! It’s so mundane, but I just can’t shake the unease of that from my mind.
Then there’s the picture—and, now, the living room fully furnished, blanket’s thrown, as if someone lived here one moment and then up and left…or worse…vanished the next. What to make of all of this? I feel so overwhelmed and, for perhaps the first time in my adult life, I feel utterly incapable of moving forward—as if some unseen force is holding me there. I know this is just my nerves getting the best of me and I am trying to do anything to break the spell fear has put on me. Not even thinking of my favorite centerfold, Rosie, can shake me out of it. Fuck!—her tits could shake me out of nearly anything!
a chittering sound.
the sound of hard legs moving.
a low hum persists.
My heart stops beating. I silence my breathing. I can hear it. A hum…no, not a hum. A buzz. A buzzing. A low, terrible, rolling paper-thin buzzing that will not be silenced no matter how hard I try. The longer it continues the more I hear it—louder and louder and louder—its intensity swells like a massive headache. It’s skull crushing…the sound…the buzzing. The incessant buzzing. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I feel the compulsion to just look up; yet, every ounce of my conscious mind fears doing so.
the ceiling is dark—
darker, but with yellow streaks;
I feel a sharp sting.
and then another.
two more stings on top of those
right into my eye!
I am running now. I can’t see out of my left eye and I can feel it and parts of my face swelling. I see what appears to be a door with my one good eye and I head right for it. The buzzing follows—no, it surrounds—the whole house is infested! It’s literally crawling with yellow jackets, and these fuckers don’t just sting and die! I open the door and throw myself in…
open air meets me;
the darkness is pitch below.
i’ll die from this fall.
POET’S NOTE:
This is the eighth part of Season 2 in my series, Devilishly Dreadful.
For Macabre Monday. Inspired by a real-life experience exploring an abandoned watershed village in Northwestern, New Jersey, this original haibun reimagines that encounter as a Gothic tale of mounting terror, local superstition, and the deadly consequences of fear.
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
Prepare for some more Devilishly Dreadful
The season has ended, but the dread isn’t done.
This Christmas, Ruthie returns in Part Two of Saint Sorebones. Then, on New Year’s Eve, The Boy Detective’s mystery continues.
Two holiday installments of Devilishly Dreadful. Keep one ear to the darkness…
Coming Soon on vinyl:
DEVILISHLY DREADFUL: A Second Season of Gothic Dread
The gas lamps burn. The needle drops. Season Two’s dark tales find a new home on vinyl. Keep one ear to the darkness…something devilishly dreadful could be on its way into your record collection.
Now Available
Devilishly Dreadful: A Macabre Monday Series, Season 1 on Vinyl
Perfect spooky Halloween entertainment for age-appropriate family and friends. Recommended for ages 16+
Also Available
Tristan Robert Lange’s Annabel Lee
A little music to accompany today’s poetry: my new release, Annabel Lee, is out today! 🖤 Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, this eight-and-a-half-minute tone poem is composed by me and performed by Appalachian Virtual Ensemble.
I’d love for you to give it a listen. Best news, though? It’s yours for free! Enjoy!
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
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