THE CURSED FOREST OF TRANSYLVANIA

By Peter Woodgate 

A shortcut through the forest

Would get them there on time

The bride-to-be and groom stepped in

The coach that looked so fine.

 

The groom was anxious as he spoke,

“We are late for our wedding rite,

Don’t spare the horses, we must arrive

Before this coming night.”

 

The rhythm of the horse’s hooves

Drummed out a lullaby,

The couple soon, were fast asleep,

As trees were flashing by.

 

The coach driver stared straight ahead

A concerned look upon his face,

He glanced at the sun as it fell from the sky

And feared they would lose this race.

 

Sunlight faded and birdsong ceased,

The breeze became a gale,

The horses pulled up with a stamp and a snort

And the coach wheels slid on the shale.

 

The crack of the coach driver’s whip fell across

The backs of the sweating team,

They pawed at the ground and lifted their heads

As the mist swirled about them like steam.

 

The couple inside the ill-fated coach,

Awoke at the sudden jolt,

The groom pulled the window down to the latch

And looked out to determine the halt.

 

 

His gaze fell upon the coach driver’s face

Who now lay prone on the ground,

He felt a black shadow envelope his soul

Then collapsed with never a sound.

 

The bride-to be was pale with fright

No scream could she compose,

The stranger from Hell looked into her eyes,

She gazed back and instantly froze.

 

She awoke and lay in a four-poster bed

Upon sheets of the finest silk,

She was dressed in a cotton negligee

And felt passion, yet fearful of guilt.

 

She leapt out of bed and ran to the door

Alas; she was locked in that room,

A shiver ran through her yet sweat dripped from brow

And inside her a feeling of doom.

 

A shadow slid under the door that was locked

And approached as she cowered on the bed,

A figure emerged from the shadow that was

Her eyes, wide with fear, filled with dread.

 

The hypnotic eyes, those blood-red eyes,

Brushed all sanity aside,

She half-turned as fangs drove deep into flesh

And she relished the moment she died.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate