Fred R. Kane is no stranger to strangeness. He’s seen an UAP, spent the night sleeping on the ground of a haunted forest, spent another night in an haunted jail, lived next door to a haunted police station, and drank himself stupid in a graveyard that is rumored to be haunted…

In spite of all this, he has never had a real encounter with any ghosts, extraterrestrials or cryptids. Just the same, he’s witnessed a barking cat, some barking fish, and a bird on a wire call out repeatedly, “Hey you!” He’s also, on two different occasions, in two different places of residence, had his window shade fly up while he was reading the scariest passage of a scary story. At present, he lives just off a road that has its own ghost story, in a town where once resided a famous serial killer.

Since 1990, Fred has had his verse published in the following publications: Walpurgis Night, CCTC Reflections 94, Necrotic Tissue, The Best of Necrotic Tissue, The Horror Zine, and Pedestal Magazine. His only short story appeared in Morpheus Tales, and reprinted in The Best of Morpheus Tales Vol. 2.  He has written letters to Fangoria, Rue Morgue, and Guitar World.  Five of his letters have been published. Yes, he counts these as part of his “literary accomplishments.”  


In a hollow land, there’s a night of crying
long as the fingernails
on the hands of a buried mother.                   
Moon light-night shade veils 

a shadow land. Long hour whispers
amaranthine comfort to one beguiled:
a melody, silent, soothing
lullaby to a motherless child.

Hallowed land, defiled in darkness:
an open wound to the ground.
Asylum rooms erupt with screaming
while an orphan is calmed by a whispering sound.


Things are coming to get me.
They’re soaring down from out of the sky.
They read my thoughts through the tin foil hat,
and I don’t know how, or why
they’ve come to take me away from my family;
probe my ass and make my mama cry,
“Why did those things have to come and take you
up into the joyless sky?”

Things are coming to get me.
They’re clawing up from under the ground.
I thought I could keep myself hidden,
but somehow I got found.
Now I’m leaving the saloon too early;
gotta get home before sun down, 
to lock my doors, and garlic the windows;
let my prayers be the only sound.

Things are coming to get me.
They’re swimming in from out of the sea.
Although I live on a boat in the sand of the desert
I know they’ll never let me be.
Everybody says I’m lying or crazy,
but soon the truth will set us all free;
when the flood comes, things are gonna get me, 
and drag me back into the primal sea.

Things are coming to get me.
They’re reaching in from out of the past.
I ran my best to keep ‘em far behind,
but they’re catching up to me fast.
All the shit that my running shoes went through
left a trail and a muddy cast
for those damn things to follow:
damn things from my bloody past.

I should’ve listened to my mama:
clean my room
and put my things away         

I should’ve listened to my mama:
clean my room
and put them things away


Like the cadaver dog you are, come sniffin’ ‘round my past.
Point out the buried bodies. I’m asked where I was seen last.
My deadman stare, you swear, conceals a dirty lie.
No news to you the accused can’t be alibied,
but I swear,
She must have fell asleep at the wheel;
she left me driving and crying.

You kicked in my closet door and they all fell out to play:
those skeletons I thought were locked neatly away.
Now they dance before a jury, though I swear I’m without peer.
I might come cross as arrogant, but let me make this clear,
She fell asleep at the wheel.
She left me, driving and crying.

If I smile, you’ll say I’m guilty.
If I stare, you’ll say I’m cold.
If I cry, you’ll say I’m acting,
man this act is getting old!
I don’t know how much more of this I’ll be forced to take. 
Nancy get your matches, now you’ve tied me to the stake
for all to see,
and it could be
the victim here is me.