Secrets in the Stalks

Secrets in the Stalks Sarah Hoffmeier

Thank you to Liz Whitacre and her poetry class, and to the little whispers that carried my fingers over the keys.

Indiana is home to corn, legends, ghosts and demons. Be careful if you wish to explore these places at night. You may get more than a few bumps and scratches when you turn to head home.

Please enjoy and have fun reading!

Acknowledgments 2.The Crossroads of America 3. The Souls in the Stone 4. Bloody Mary I 5. Sister Sarah 6. Cry Baby Bridge 7. The Lady in White 8. Down Into the Depths Below 9. 100 Steps 10. 01101100 01100101 01100001 01110110 01100101

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The Tunnel in Tunnelton 13.Graveyards are Like Gravy 13. Bloody Mary II 14. Knock on Wood 14.Nighttime Clairaudience 15. Sestina Whispers 15.Deadman’s Curve 17. Bulls-eye Lake 18. Secrets in the Cornfields 20. Gas Stations are Stop Stations Before Home 21. Bloody Mary III 22. The Coffin 23. Author’s Note

The Crossroads of America Bewitch the in between For it is neither here nor there.

Dirt roads and muddy passes

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The Souls in the Stone Blacked out eyes and tentacles. Swimming through life. Not knowing that the ocean is but a parking lot. The daily activities and drones of customs are just set on autopilot. Trapped in the layered foundation with a legion. All with the same mindset, all slightly different than the counterpart.

Creatures with features.

Carry our bodies to Bed- in a beige -Ford.

Window sills and Hotel Pennsylvania. Where you can always come in but getting out is impossible.

Cornbrash Formation.

We see in 90 degrees. Faces inverted while the boards do creak. It is time for meat.

But we do not eat. Our mouths are smudged away on this concrete clay.

Spindly legs outstretched like hands, we are waiting, still and patent.

Craving and craved upon.

Stuck in other words.

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Bloody Mary I The doctor shouldn’t ‘ve made that diagnosis.

He shouldn’t ‘ve called you dead.

My life is wrecked We shouldn’t ‘ve buried ya dead.

The fateful reaper was with you, one way or another that night.

He loosed the string and we couldn’t hear the ring.

I’m still in mourning It must’ve hurt. Must’ve been scary.

When you woke to the dark.

I am lonely When you ran out of air, The burning candle in my lungs When you clawed the wood till your nails broke upwards, My name is Mary And then we found you, hands mid air above yer face with eyes so fearful.

And I am all bloodied.

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Sister Sarah Bloody Mary had a sister, her name not so sinister.

Creeping down the bathroom sink, out the lights five times speak.

Sister Sarah the outsider, speak your whispers from mirror.

In the silence, in the dark, your weddless hands do knock.

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Cry Baby Bridge Hush little baby, Mama needs a miniate.

Gonna leave home now baby, Looking for a jumpsuit.

Stop your tears now, Give me a dress suite.

Hush little baby, Not looking for a lawsuit.

The water is too dark to know.

Imagine it is silk and sleep now.

Mama is looking for some little powder.

Maybe it is on this person’s bumper.

I’ll let them drive a little closer.

They held not my child so Off of the bridge they go.

Car in neutral it doesn’t start.

Here, let me give you a little shove.

Cries for my baby I weep. Please bring her something to eat.

Hush little baby, Mama knew you were askin’ for it.

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The Lady in White Pretty lady in white, Why shed your tears.

Far from home far from life In the middle of the road.

Disappear and re-enter in my back seat.

All will be well poor lady in white.

Do not shed your tears in this cloud burst in the night.

Petrified lady in white.

The rain sings a smalls corus as the thunderless lightning stirs.

Illuminating the skin beneath the white.

Something rotting, something foul.

A smell of puss and mud and blood.

An iron rich smell and a sudden chill.

Do not worry dear lady in white for your newlywed husband is home.

With two children in sight for this poor lady in white, No husband tonight.

A light in the attic and the rain is echos.

Your voice I cannot remember, my dear lady in white.

Now be gone from sight and memories delight.

I alone carry on in the dead of night.

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Down Into the Depths Below A blue hole, illuminated in day an night.

Hypnotic in sight.

Gone forever if done right.

The sound of a train disappearing down, limitless below.

Passengers and caboose swallowed whole.

Down into the depths of Blue Hole.

With two old eyes, and the nose of a troll.

A bridge he was bestowed.

Don’t swim, don’t fish, don’t hold your breath.

He’s not nowhere. He’s not dead. He just found that other world.

Out of sight out of mind.

Gone below into depths unknown.

Beware the edges and join in the sink, Welcome to Blue Hole where treasures of gold and riches cannot be told.

A gaping mouth from a fish, Indiana's loch ness.

Here life is drained of its essence for such beautiful ambience.

See the lights, see the sights, see the faces of their frights.

Bodies gone, disappeared into the ghostlight.

Rancid smells, warns of hell descend below.

Come join us down in Blue Hole.

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100 Steps A one hundred steps of ascended death.

Count.

One, Two, then skip a few.

The undertaker of ‘62, Will reveal the death of you.

The midnight mist a misjudge of descent.

Count One, two, skip a few.

Avoid the steps and ascend to the left.

You won’t like what happens next.

COUNT! ONE, TWO, THEN SKIP A FEW. Death has come, and it has come for you.

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01101100 01100101 01100001 01110110 01100101 Go! Get out of here.

This place is not safe!

It’s not your home.

Never has, never will.

Leave here and be safe.

Save yourself and damn the consequences.

Just

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leave

The Tunnel in Tunnelton In the darkness of the night Blacker than pitch Abandon and cry for The devil has a backbone It has been discovered Nosies, tears and scars.

Blood on the walls and darkness falls.

Blacker than pitch In the darkness of the night Leave and flee for Life is lost here.

Discover insidious intentions Screams, blood and fears.

Paint the walls as this darkness falls.

It is the blackness worse than night.

Resign and die for Life decays here.

Hunted and preyed upon by something inhuman.

Take advice and stay home where It is nice. For it is In the darkness of the night People get lost.

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Graveyards are Like Gravy Mix and mash, Smash and stash The fats fall off into the pot.

Clump the soupy remains.

Running running ruins befall.

Here to all a long lost meal.

The family has rejoined.

It’s time for fun, Brings the kids and bring the lonely.

It is fun to dip into gravy.

Bloody Mary II Curse ‘er name o’er the grave. She is a witch! Call on her from the grave to prove bravado.

Curse ‘er name only to leave bloody.

A briar Falling down Watch the road Or the pick up running o’er your leg.

Curse ‘er name if you can find the body. The local cemetery lost ‘er grave.

Water Follow the Muscatatuck River to the footpath, abandon’ but grass refuses to grow ‘ere.

Still the remains of an old mill stand.

My home Mysteriously.

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Knock On Wood The snow is a cold promise.

Soft flesh buried six feet below, Preserved and silent as the light of life is fleeting.

One big tree orders and demands with a thunderous presence.

The branches thin enough to choke the trunk of it’s kids.

Silently whipping behind shadowed hills.

Ancestral skeletons chopped and shaved into fences.

Nighttime Clairaudience In the dark, taps and shutters. The shivers that enter my body are unnatural. Things are wrong and instincts are screaming. Open wide my mouth for air is non existent. Whispers blow in the wind and beastly screeches hype up the adrenaline.

Did something move? Was that a voice? Am I not alone? What was that? Am I Safe?

Arms to my chest the tempo picks up. Sharp rings, harsh rings, apical ringing. The further I move from my initial spot the worse the feeling gets. A little food to calm the nerves.

A bite, the mayo leaks.

A chew, the tomato creeps.

A swallow, the turkey slivers up my throat. A drink of water. Most trusted purifier to push it all down. Down.

My head whips with the power of backlash; was that my name? Who knew this path could be traveled unalone. The walkway is a corridor that is seen in horror. Illuminated by the kitchen light. Turn around in any direct I choose. My back is still exposed. Looking up and looking down does nothing to silence this whispering sound. 3 A.M. and I cannot sleep. Work tomorrow but the shivers speaks. Was the clocks so loud before.

A chime startles me more than before. Things are buzzing walls are creaking. Is something walking over there?! More rumbles and thumps now. I cannot stay here exposed as I am.

Running for the bed a common falsetto. I feel more alert now that my back in facing this bed set.

The eyes are drooping, but my mind screams that I must stay awake. A gasp is heard and heart is pulsing life through me once more. 6 A.M and time is come. Good morning world until the day is done and I say once more, “Goodnight, and don’t let the monsters bite.”

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Sestina Whispers Gliding over the land in the attempt to last.

Hanged and stitched upon this cross.

See the soul come out and slip.

Out and about does it move in motions so slippery.

None want to be first but certainly not the last.

Pat our faces and leave the arms crossed.

Gone and still to get the point across.

See the ground give out in a landslip.

Alone and unsecured we outlast.

Deadman’s Curve

Closer and closer.

To Deadman’s Curve.

Just the twist of the neck.

A crack of the spine.

And then all will be fine.

Branches to grip you tight.

Open fields to bury you right.

White river next door to wash stories ashore.

We welcome you to drive Closer and faster And faster And break over at Deadman’s Curve.

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Bull’s-eye Lake A swampy lake for the blackest of souls. That is why it is pitch and tar full.

Though on nights and when the moon ain’t so bright, Some say a little unknown light will be seen in the middle.

It pulsates and groans.

Because a poor farmer had been sunked down below.

He and his horse and his cart of wares, whining and calling for help below.

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Secrets in the Cornfields Hushes in the stalks.

The wind blows and hushes.

Scarecrows whisper to crows.

Secrets and gossips travel through the kernels.

The round barn spins tales.

All while the corn sits and shutters.

Alone at last, with not a second guess.

Rows upon rows line stalks of corn.

Outstretched and lingering tall.

They whisper and hiss in the evening hours.

Pulling and pushing one another, To spread the word, that you are alone.

Wind carries and brushes past, The organized and man made nest of an unnatural forest.

Moving with joints cracking.

Their bodies dancing in a bad robot dance.

Watch out for where the corn dances, And the wind is at home, Remember that you are never alone.

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Gas Stations are Stop Stations Before Home Working late at the third shift of Circle K is creepy without the normal drunkards. Getting hit on by the overconfident incapacitated male. Funny revenge when they ask for the bathroom key around the outside. In one of the two stalls with the heavy doors in the parking lot is the old ghost name Farmer Jim. Jim is a gentleman and will leave scratches alone their backs. You can hear him hum the tune to Cotton Eye Joe . He only bothers those that are rude to the workers, who are mostly female. Jessica tried a seance and claims they are dating now and wears a gaudy dark green plastic ring on her right hand now.

Kelly is the little girl that lives in the corner by the drinks and slim jims.

She rarely shows herself and prefers no attention. I’ve caught her open the freezer door once.

I laughed and asked if she wanted a big girl coke.

At this a few minutes later the snack floor. Noted, don’t mess with little ghost

shelf fell over and knocked girls.

all over the

The more frightening thing is that Kelly makes a lot of demonic mentions and a seance with this audio recorder showed a creepy laugh to the ghost men.

That was all they could gather and when one mentioned his holy water supplies in the back behind the wall of the coffee crashed and left a sticky mess.

These are the only mentions of paranormal activity at this gas station.

Not enough pay for this kinda mess at 7.50 an hour.

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Bloody Mary III Poor little Mary Wales. Who loved her father but he not her. A wicked man known for slaves and money. Blamed the daughter for the mother did die.

Went drinking and anger filled his soul the day she turned Twenty-Four. Took a knife and slashed her up. Cut slash cut Sober the next morning, flooring her in the dirt in the basement, till several mornings after Mary came back.

Cut slash cut All that was left of him was a note, and his dangling corpse.

Where she rests is only dorment. At the house or the cemetery, where she is buried, unhappy Mary Wales.

Cut slash cut

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The Coffin The country road cuts through this long but thinning forest.

The trees, the trees, the trees bend over the only pathway. Finger like appendages reaching down to cover you.

Making itself like a coffin lid.

There once was a girl that died in the middle. Be it murder, be it sickness, be it an accident that the young young young child faced. Now the trees still hang over the road, unnaturally so.

Making itself a coffin.

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Author’s Note

I wrote this chapbook with the idea that verbal stories are a tradition. Making this take a traditional approach on the verbal storytelling because this is tradition and it is becoming a lost art. I wanted to bring back that feeling of telling ghost stories at the firepit with smores and sitting in the dirt or lawn chairs slightly skewed. Making it romanticized where the only light in the darkness is creating the shifts and dances of shadows that peek and jingle behind us. I took the setting and placed myself in Indiana because I consider this my home. Listening to stories by peers, family, teachers on folklore, history, or just for entertainment because some drunken fool started yelling in the courtyard. I wanted to make the individual poems hold that folklore and haunting aspect, so I made them mostly musical. I also like to think a lyrical approach to haunting words lingers in the mind, like a nursery rhyme that warns kids of dangers.

Some of the poems are broken and spaced differently. This is to symbolize demonic presence rather than humanoid ghosts that are stuck in the plain. The breaks and cesuras are meant to throw off the person and maybe cause a headache if I am lucky; almost like breathing in sulfur. I enjoy when one place or setting has a collective set of imagery and meanings. So, The Crossroads of America make the reader understand at first glance I am talking about Indiana.

But, delving deeper, the reader can take a more unnatural position and think supernatural.

Instead of just the painstaking everyday with normal imagery and emotions I wanted a more mystified and puzzle piece of visuals. With this chapbook I wanted to use the supernatural as my basis in Indiana because it is an unknown. Most people are afraid of the unknown and some never see it in their lifetime. So, when I think about the crossroads, I see demonic dealings and the beautiful sunset becomes more eerie and foreboding.

While reading through the book the reader may notice that not one story is specialized for Bloody Mary. I worded these title names because there are so many variations stories. Almost like telephone where every county wanted their own Bloody Mary. These variations in stories are also a tradition in storytelling.

Honestly, I would like to personally visit most of these rather than hear friends’ experiences.

Hearing a haunting story is less personal than actually visiting and feeling the chill run down while the jaw stiffens. Not only did I want to bring about my own visually frightening story to the readers but also to bring back to life what has died. Nowadays, many folks do not tread carefully in the dark night. Nor do I see respect for the places that hold possibilities of an afterlife. If I can bring back that spiritual belief than I will be pleased in knowing that traditions and lessons can be carried on still from this generation's on forth. Not only this, but I want readers not from Indiana to also visit with a new outlook at cornfields and bridges and our little murky lakes with a fascination that could bring about adventure down the winding and twisted roads. I have high hopes that when you read something or look at something standing on the side of the road to look again. It may not be as simple as a corn stalk or tree but rather something more within the shadows.

I highly recommend reading this book while sitting alone, maybe in the dark, while listening to creepy piano and music box music. You might start hearing things that shouldn’t be there.

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Secretes in the Stalks is a collection of poems that give the reader a haunting apparition viewpoint of Indiana’s small tales and little whispers.

Why some of the residences do not venture to this stretch of the woods at night or the haunting of the roadside that homes a cemetery off to its side.

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