Catacombs, Paris by Sandy Hiss

Over 180 miles of tunnels
traverse like snakes through dirt paths.
Some will lead to wine cellars, large murals,
mushroom farms or faces of death.

I am one of those faces
in this chaos of bone and memory,
just another skull in a crowd of six million
piled atop broken femurs and tibias.

It is always midnight cold here
in this garden of limestone;
the moon will cast a beacon of light
when it tires of a quiet, starless sky.

That is when the voices grow louder,
when the moaning becomes endless.
It is an opera of the dead
with no audience or standing ovation

Sandy Hiss writes lyrical poetry and short fiction in various genres such as horror, paranormal, and fantasy. Her fiction includes The Rosegiver and The Haunting of Meredith. She finds forests, gardens with stone statues, and old world architecture to be hauntingly beautiful.

Sleepwalker by Sandy Hiss

Inspired by the film Silent Hill


In my dreams,
someone is calling to me in the mist.
I cannot see who it is. The voice is familiar
yet distant. My lips tremble in reply.
Mother? Is it you?

Above me,
black petals fall from the sky,
fluttering like moths
drawn to some unknown light.
My eyes become full moons.

The petals soon envelope me,
warm as a mother’s touch,
smudging my pale cheeks
in dark, ashy kisses.

Below me,
the earth is on fire,
singeing the soles of my boots.
I run, on and on, towards shelter,
towards the voice that continues to call.

I think of mother again.
Where could she be?
I think of a lone rose
struggling to bloom
beneath a choking sky.

Before me,
the abandoned town
is silent but not dead.
She is here somewhere,
among the dead and debris.

I will walk forever
until I fall back into her arms.

Sandy Hiss writes lyrical poetry and short fiction in various genres such as horror, paranormal, and fairy tale. Her works include The Rosegiver and The Haunting of Meredith. She finds forests, gardens with stone statues, and old world architecture to be hauntingly beautiful.

The Abbey by Sandy Hiss

As the Autumn wind howled, Wren shivered slightly as she wrapped her arms around herself while admiring the stained glass window. Despite the small crack in the upper right corner, this was the only window in the ancient abbey that still remained intact, a testament to the life that once dwelled within its stone walls.

She knew she shouldn't be here, it was trespassing, but she couldn't keep away from the allure of the old building. Just think of all the monks who traversed these rooms and halls, what tales they could tell. Plus, after several previous jaunts here, this was her final excursion to the old abbey. Her heart felt a bit heavy at the thought.

A damp gust of wind snapped her out of her thoughts. Wren checked the time on her watch. "Oh no! I didn't know it was this late." She hurriedly snapped a few photos of the window and the broken glass shards on the ground, then grabbed her backpack, stowing the camera inside. Whenever she went out exploring, she always kept an eye on the time, never wanting to be caught outside in the dark or within whatever old, creepy structure she was wandering through.

As she jumped down the crumbling stone steps, she sensed that she wasn't alone. Something touched her shoulder. "What the?" Wren quickly turned around to discover that she was face to face with a monk. Above, a crow cawed from atop a drooping beam and suddenly flew off, into the darkness. The scent of smoke and burning candles drifted through the ruins.

Color drained from Wren’s face. This was the moment she had been waiting for, for months. So why, now, was she literally shaking in her boots. Keep it together, kid. He can’t hurt you. "Hello, my name is…Wren. Do you want to tell me something? It’s okay, I’m only here to listen.” She paused, hoping for a response.

The monk continued to look at her, as if he were looking straight into her soul. Wren fidgeted, wiping her nervous hands on her jeans. Before she could say anything more, the monk walked right through her and continued walking towards the mangled hallway. “I…I don’t understand. Do you want me to follow you?” 

Further ahead, Wren could hear more voices echoing through the walkway. There’s more of them and, I think they’re chanting. The monk she encountered joined his counterparts as they walked single file down the hallway.

Where are they going? I need to know, this is unbelievable. Wren pinched herself, not sure if she was really awake or dreaming. “Ouch! Okay, this is no dream. Holy shit!” She followed them, keeping a safe distance while listening to their chants which sounded like lullabies beneath the glistening moon. 

The cemetery, they’re headed to the abbey’s cemetery…but why? Wren had explored the ancient cemetery a few times before, but never witnessed anything paranormal in the least. She watched them as one by one they began stepping down into the earth, as if an invisible staircase was leading them down. And then they were gone. And it was quiet again. 

“No! You can’t leave yet. I haven’t had a chance to ask you why you haunt these grounds. What happened? What did you want me to see?” Wren scoured the cemetery, then looked at the headstone where the monks had disappeared beneath. Crouching down, she got the answer, after all. 

There was a great fire in the abbey in 1765, in which seven monks perished. The cause of the fire was unknown. Wren rubbed the headstone, feeling the carved names of the monks. “Hmm, it says that Brother Sebastian attempted to save them by dragging them out one by one but it was too late. When he went back inside to retrieve the last six bodies, he never came back out.” 

Wren wiped her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sebastian. I wish that I could have saved you and your brothers. You’re not forgotten. I hope that you’ll find a sense of peace…someday.”

As she departed the abbey, a crow appeared again, headed for the same drooping beam. The smell of smoke and candles also reappeared. Wren shook her head in surrender and trudged through the yellow grass.

Sandy Hiss writes lyrical poetry and short fiction in various genres such as horror, paranormal, and fairy tale. Her works include The Rosegiver and The Haunting of Meredith. She finds forests, gardens with stone statues, and old world architecture to be hauntingly beautiful.

Victorian Mourning Bracelet by Sandy Hiss

Strange, this shadow world
that I've come to inhabit.
My last memory, I am sitting alone
in my parlor of burgundy damask wallpaper,
sipping fragrant, peppermint tea.

The grandfather clock chimes
approximately twelve times
the left side of my body is frozen
as my eyes become cloaked
in a darkness I cannot comprehend.

Where is my black dress with lace trim?
Why do I reside on a lady's dainty wrist?
Am I not more than woven strands of hair
on black enamel or vulcanite?
Why am I stroked like a lost cat?

I want to cry out but I am mute.
I want to mourn the months I've lost.
The lady is familiar now.
She is my daughter, I remember that much.
Now, she talks to me in the night
behind closed doors, hushed.

She has become my songbird,
mouthing all the songs, all the words
I intended to say but never could.

I wrap myself tighter around her wrist,
wishing I could feel her warmth.
She replies with a reassuring smile,
"I love you too, mother."

Sandy Hiss writes dark, lyrical poetry & fiction.  Her fondest memories of childhood are from her years in Germany, playing in the vast woods behind her home which contributed to her lifelong love of dark fairy tales, magical realism, and the paranormal.  Sandy's works include a gothic fairytale novel, The Rosegiver, and a paranormal novelette, The Haunting of Meredith.

In the White Room by Sandy Hiss

innocence peacefully sleeps
wrapped snuggly inside the petals
of a magnolia tree.  Scent of sweetness
permeates the air, translucent clouds
that soak up the grey rain of time.

In the corner, a young girl poses
for the cover of Muse magazine.
Legs crossed, shoulders pert
cutting out paperdolls from the wings
of opal moths.  Every doll is a clone,
porcelain skin, Geisha lips, and
onyx eyes that close when the moon appears.

She knows the language of darkness.  
Studied it silently through violet glasses.
How it seduced her mother and drove her
father insane.  She can still hear his howls
and how they shocked the hairs on her arms.

So she stays within the light,
locking all doors to the outside.  
Her heart, a pearl unblemished.



*Published in The Literary Burlesque, Fall 2010




Sandy Hiss writes poetry & fiction, sometimes dark, magical, or mysterious.  Her fondest memories of childhood are from her years in Germany, playing in the vast woods behind her home which contributed to her lifelong love of fairy tales, magical realism, and the paranormal. Sandy currently resides in Southern California with her husband and two children. 

Galileo's Fingers by Sandy Hiss

Curious onlookers and tourists with digital
cameras slowly inch their way towards 
the preserved shrunken treasure.  Above, 
Florence's burnt sienna sky yawns at the line 

of human ants trailing around stone fountains
overflowing with coins and ungranted wishes; 
a common scene occurring everyday with the 
familiar lineup of crying babies, bald men 

with fat bellies, and stick-thin women 
snapping open their compacts for one last 
fling with their reflections.  Did Galileo 
ever imagine that pieces of him would scatter 

like the stars he studied.  Only to have a few 
fingers; a thumb and middle finger yanked away, 
displayed for over 300 years. The lone middle 
finger prominent beneath a sky of glass. Perhaps 

pointing once again towards the heavens 
or replying to skeptics who never believed
in things unseen by the naked eye.

Sandy Hiss writes poetry and short fiction. She has always been intrigued by haunted houses, ancient cemeteries, forests, gardens, and abandoned buildings. 

Fluorescent by Sandy Hiss

Spring rain taps the iron
covers of street lamps,
sending a morse code
only the dead understand.

Lovers huddle beneath 
black vinyl umbrellas.
Buzzing like anxious flies, 
seeking shelter  

from the icy water 
pelting frost into their pores.
They wander towards
the tease of light,

resembling delirious moths
oblivious to sudden movement.
Their hearts glowing steadily,
beacons guiding lost souls home.

Sandy Hiss writes poetry and short fiction. She has always been intrigued by haunted houses, ancient cemeteries, forests, gardens, and abandoned buildings. Sandy currently resides in Southern California with her husband and two children. 

The Living and The Dead by Sandy Hiss

Early morning hour,
thirsty Wildflowers gather dew 
within fields toasted dry 
from the Cheyenne sun.

Like the flora, 
we gather our bones together
bind them beneath layers of cotton 
and metal buttons.

We walk in silence
upon a quilt of sage grass
and strands of sepia fox fur
beside antelope droppings.

Prairie dogs 
stand still as sentinels,
watching our every move
but we don't say a word.

A buffalo cloud
ambles above our heads
as we hover above tombstones
of settlers and soldiers.

Like the cloud,
we must have seemed pale as angels.
Convinced we are the living
looking down on the dead in pity.

Sandy Hiss writes poetry and short fiction.  She has always been intrigued by haunted houses, ancient cemeteries, forests, gardens, and abandoned buildings. Sandy currently resides in Southern California with her husband and two children. 

The Calling of the Crows by Sandy Hiss

Black crows cawed and flitted atop the roof.

“Those damn birds!” shouted Giovanni,

“I wish they would find elsewhere to perch!

This home is not a sanctuary for birds!”

His wife Paloma peeked quietly at him

from behind black rimmed glasses and grinned;

she had witnessed this conversation far too often

but it always amused her to see the birds win.

How she longed to be just like them,

to soar above the seas and fly away on a whim.

To wear a beautiful coat of black feathers

and not apologize for anything whatsoever.

Giovanni had broken her wings years ago;

his temper flaring when he didn’t get his way.

She never knew what it was like to fly solo

for he never left her alone without a chaperone.

Days passed by giving way unto nights,

in the darkness she dreamt of the crows.

They were cackling and calling her name,

“Fly away Paloma, your house is not a home.”

A month passed and the crows were nowhere to be seen.

Giovanni laughed with glee…he was finally free.

Far away, Paloma cawed and excitedly spread her wings.
Yes indeed…she too was finally free.

Sandy Hiss has always been intrigued by haunted houses, ancient cemeteries, forests, gardens, and abandoned buildings. She currently resides in Southern California with her husband and two children.

Buried by Sandy Hiss

The broken-down and dying
scribble their detached names
in the muddy, coastal sand.

Each stroke of driftwood
a wound they suffered alone;
their toes buried in discomfort

from walking barefoot in circles.
Dead starfish and brown seaweed
litter the beach like discarded

bones, marrow intact.  A hermit
crab picks at the decaying bodies,
attempting to retrieve the secrets

of the ancient cerulean sea.  But,
she will never reveal her mystery,
her connection to the moon's clock.

Quickly erases the beach graffiti
with the curl of the tide, knowing
the sunset will bring more souls,

sleepwalking their way into her arms.

Sandy Hiss has always been intrigued by haunted houses, ancient cemeteries, forests, gardens, and abandoned buildings. She currently resides in Southern California with her husband and two children. 

Black Pearl Sky by Sandy Hiss

She was alone again, trying not to
look behind at the ghosts that followed
her home. The cool air stifled her
breath; she coughed just to think.

With a loud rumble, the clouds above 
parted ways, having fought over a lost 
crow that stole their warmth. Pellets
of black pearls fell from the sky, 

bouncing off her porcelain body. Like
old war wounds, she carried the cracks
in silence. There would be no storytelling
for the children, only nightmares 

replaying in her eyes. Her pale hands 
trembled as they shielded her from the 
pain. With a loud caw, she spread her 
wounded wings, ever searching for the 

sun that would warm her frozen heart. 

Sandy Hiss writes poetry and short fiction. She's always been intrigued by haunted houses, ancient cemeteries, forests, gardens, and abandoned buildings. Sandy currently resides in Southern California with her husband and two children. 

October Sky by Sandy Hiss

In the crisp October morning, the
daily ritual begins. Formations of 
fog creep slowly along riverbanks
and granite headstones. Fallen leaves 
tremble in their presence, gathering 

their golden children in from the cold. 
An auburn squirrel selfishly packs its 
jaws with acorns, storing them for the
future. Sleeping soldiers dream of 
family and apple pie, awakened in spurts

by nightmares that dance atop their 
graves. Demons wave tattered flags and 
nickel buttons glazed in foreign blood.
The soldiers rub their blurry eyes to see 
the world clearly, as they knew it, in 

light. They see nothing but dark. Old 
wounds lie stagnant, bandaged by dust and 
purple hearts. They repeat their names, 
hoping to be heard; to be remembered. 
Above, the wrinkled sky listens and cries.

Sandy Hiss has always been intrigued by haunted houses, ancient cemeteries, forests, gardens, and abandoned buildings. She currently resides in Southern California with her husband and two children. 

Book of Skin / Poveglia by Sandy Hiss

Book of Skin

I have lived beyond a century
but I am no vampire, no unearthly being.
Mother abandoned me in an asylum
said not to return until the demons went away.
They remained, clutching my heart,
squeezing so tight until my blood ran cold.
The asylum donated me to science,
who in turn donated me to a bookbinder.
He was in dire need of parchment; 
my skin was favorable with dabs of sumac.
I have been touched by the gifted hands
of scientists, scholars, and curators.
The words that reside inside me
are not my own and never will be,
for what my story holds
is much too horrifying to comprehend.

Poveglia

In the 16th century, 
the Bubonic Plague 
swept its way across Europe.  
The island became a quarantine 
for the unwanted, 
their bodies discarded 
as if they were nothing more 
than insects and dust.

Hundreds of years later, 
an asylum was erected;
heads were drilled with holes
by a doctor who thought 
he was an angel
offering salvation and peace.
He thought he could fly to Heaven

and leapt from a tower into Hell.

Sandy Hiss writes poetry and short fiction. She has always been intrigued by haunted houses, ancient cemeteries, forests, gardens, and abandoned buildings. Sandy currently resides in Southern California with her husband and two children.