10/17/2025
The Story of The Harvest Haunted Hike
"The Harvest Haunted Hike"
In autumn's breath, when moonlight wanes,
And winds through dying wheat complain,
The tale begins on cursed ground-
Where shadows move and screams resound.
They say the land once knew the light,
Before it slipped into the night.
Before Lord Hate, in madness fell,
And turned his home to living hell.
He ruled a manor cold and wide,
Where joy had bled and hope had died.
Each harvest eve, the villagers fled,
For fear they'd join the restless dead.
The Graveyard
Past crooked gates of rusted steel,
Where tombstones shift and spirits kneel,
The graveyard whispers names once known,
Now bound beneath the cursed stone.
Here Skitz the Clown with bloody grin,
Dances where the graves begin.
With painted face and twisted cheer,
He feeds on laughter laced with fear.
The Swamp
Beyond the graves, a swamp so black,
With sinking paths and no way back.
The Swamp Creature stirs the mire,
Its breath a fog, its gaze like fire.
It guards the ooze where secrets drown,
And pulls the careless wanderers down.
Their cries are swallowed by the reeds-
Another feast, another deed.
The Shack
A wooden shack, askew, decayed,
Where broken tools and bones are laid.
Within, the Fog Creature creeps and coils,
A whisper wrapped in earthen spoils.
It hunts the light, it drinks the breath,
And speaks in tongues of sleep and death.
No lamp survives, no voice breaks free-
Just echo, dust, and memory.
The Mine
The mine lies choked in ash and soot,
Its tunnels clawed by phantom foot,
Inside the Butcher waits in red,
To carve the silence, cold and dead.
He sharpens steel with steady hand,
And hums a song you'll understand
Only when you're next in line-
A final cut, a fatal sign.
The Fields
Then to the Summoning Fields you'll stray,
Where crimson crops like blood will sway.
The Red Summoner chants his lore,
In circles burned through earth’s core.
He calls to things beyond the gate,
To feast and bind, to desecrate.
The sky will split, the stars will scream-
And nightmares drip into the stream.
Fort Hate
Fort Hate now waits on haunted rise,
Its towers lost in weeping skies.
Lord Hate stands cloaked in thorn and flame,
A throne of bones, a cursed name.
He screams at winds that will not stay,
At ghosts who mock and drift away.
His throne room cracked with time and tears,
Built high on blood and broken years.
He raves, he weeps, he begs the night
To take his soul or grant him flight.
But Harvest Eve, his curse remains-
He walks the land that bears his name.
So tread with care, O foolish kin,
Who dares to let the dark begin.
The hike is long, the path is steep-
And not all souls, the mornings keep.
The Harvest Haunted Hike team sends a big thank you to Charles Hunter for documenting our story so well!
Send a message to learn more
