The Hayride After Dark

The wagon waited by the barn

beneath a harvest moon,

the horses stamped against the cold,

and night came much too soon.

We climbed aboard the bales of hay

and laughed at every fright,

while lanterns swung from wooden posts

along the road at night.

The driver said, “Don't worry, folks.

There's nothing here to fear.”

Then something knocked beneath the floor.

We heard it loud and clear.

The horses stopped. The lantern died.

The cornfields stood like walls.

A pale hand rose beside the road

and slowly traced the rails.

We screamed and laughed and held our breath.

The driver cursed and prayed.

Then someone whispered from the hay,

“I'm glad you came. I've stayed.”

The wagon lurched. The horses ran.

The farmhouse disappeared.

We passed the same old crooked tree

again—and then again.

At last we reached the barn once more.

The driver counted ten.

But there had only been nine of us

when we'd set out back then.

So if you take that haunted ride

when autumn fills the air,

and hear a voice among the bales

that says your name—beware.

Don't answer when the darkness speaks.

Don't look behind the hay.

And if a cold hand taps your back,

pretend you felt no touch that day.