They say you can sleep when you’re dead
They call it eternal rest
I always thought it sounded kind of nice
I never guessed
That I’d still have to work, even now
When I died, I couldn’t help but notice
That I was still noticing everything.
I had expected either pearly gates
Or fire and brimstone.
Not to be trapped in a cooling corpse
Listening to my family weep.
Not to be being surprised that the grave I was in was so deep.
At least it seemed very deep
When I had to dig myself out
Later that night.
My boss called, you see.
My new boss:
The one who’d used charms and gris-gris
To bind me to his service.

I didn’t sign anything, don’t quite understand why,
But now if he says jump, I say how high.
Even though it’s usually more of a shuffle.
After all, this body is still dead.
Nothing works properly
But I still have to work.
When he makes me do odd jobs, that’s not so bad.
Even though bits of me drop off sometimes
If I’m not careful.
But I hate it when he tells me to kill someone.
It’s not that I care about killing,
It’s just that I wish it was me instead of them.
At least they get to rest.

Let me in
It is difficult, navigating
Everything,

It’s a stress
It’s a mess
That you’d do

Anything
To get out of,
But you don’t:
You just stay, stuck here
Never fear
I’m here.

I am the Dybbuk

And I want to stop the pain
I will take
All the weight
And you’ll never weep again.
It’s alright, do not fight
There’s so much for you to gain
Things will never be the same

If you just let me in.

Let me step into your light
Because
I never got a burial
There’s no need for a fight
I don’t mean to get hysterical
I wouldn’t even be here
If you hadn’t called to me.

And your troubles would be over
If you’d only try to see

That you should let me in.

I will take your life
Since you really seem to hate it
And I’ll live your life
Even more, I’ll celebrate it.
I’m a Dybbuk, I am you and yes, you know that you are fated so just

Let me in.

There are folks
Who will go
Up to heaven.
With their mothers
Some get trapped
On this plane
And I am one of those others
I’m not ugly or malign
I just want you to be mine
I’m a Dybbuk and it’s time
for you to
Let
Me
In.

A Canadian variant of the werewolf. Becoming a loup-garou was a punishment said to be visited on those who didn’t go to church during Lent, and engaged in blasphemous practices such as planting potatoes on a Sunday.

I didn’t like to go to mass
On Sunday mornings. I confess:
Confession wasn’t quite my scene
I just found piety a strain.

My mother nearly died of shame
Because I’d rather stay at home
And plant potatoes in the yard
On Sunday. She’d have never dared

Miss church. She said I didn’t care
About my soul, and I should fear
Damnation. But I’d done no wrong
Except for skipping evensong.

“You’ll go to hell! You’ll fry! You’ll burn!”
Oh, hands were wrung and hair was torn
And every evening she would pray
To save my soul before I die

She cried and begged and pleaded, “Can’t
You go to church, just once, in Lent?
For if you don’t, I fear the worst
My son: You’ll be forever cursed!

No longer human, you’ll become
A loup-garou! A monstrous form!
Half man, half wolf! And then you’ll groan
And wish you’d been a better son!

But I refused. When Easter dawned
My fate arrived. Well, I’d been warned!
I screamed and howled. My body changed
To something slavering and strange

The stories mother told were true:
I had become the loup-garou!
But one thing, I don’t mind so much:
Now mum can’t make me go to church!

Said to live in the woods of Michigan, the Squonk is always crying because of its hideous appearance. At least, according to humans.

I know that you think
I’m ashamed of the way I look.
Every time you see me, I seem to be dissolving into tears.
“And after all,” you suppose,
“Who wouldn’t cry if they looked like that?
I mean, just look the state of it:
Horrible, warty and wrinkly skin.
Shambling through the forest
Sobbing away.
Poor thing probably stopped to drink at a pond,
Caught a glimpse of itself
And now look at it, just inconsolable.
Poor little squonk!
It must be terrible to look like that.”

But you only see me crying
Because I’m only crying when I see you.
I try to hold it together but
Oh god, it’s so sad!
I mean, just look at you!
That slippery smooth surface
Hardly a hair or a wart to break it up
Just that weird little tuft at the top.
So freakishly stretched out,
Like a pig who wants to be a tree!
And the wide goggle eyes,
Worst of all, you can’t even see
How hideous you look.
It just gets to me, you know?
I’m sorry, I’m off again…
Poor little human!
It must be terrible, to look like you!

My brother was always a jealous one.
If I had a toy, nothing would do for him
But that I give it up. And then, as soon as he had it
He didn’t want it anymore.
Threw it away. I used to play
With sticks and mud, just to watch him demand
To implore, to beg me for
His share in them. Only to realise too late
That he really didn’t care for them.

We grew older, but he didn’t change.
If I liked a girl, then he would have eyes for no other.
Soon enough, I stopped courting. It always brought nothing but trouble.
But his jealousy did not so much subside
As shift, to our neighbours, our friends.
The most beautiful girl in the world might smile
At him, and he wouldn’t notice. So entranced was he
By the ill favoured, bad tempered girl
Who, by coincidence, had the heart of the boy next door.
He couldn’t be happy, and yet discontent
Seemed to please him better than anything.

He went to the doctor. And you know the doctor I mean.
Not the one who cures stomach upsets, and who sets broken legs:
The one who can curse your enemies.
For my brother, this was pretty much the whole of the world.
But the boy next door and his scowling, sullen girlfriend
They bore the brunt of that visit
The boy died, his girlfriend,
perhaps not so sullen
Just quiet and misunderstood by everyone except her beloved
Went mad out of grief.
Of course, that didn’t matter to my brother.
Because once she was no longer loved by another
She was nothing to him but sticks and mud.
But there was still a doctor’s bill to pay.
And he had promised the soul of somebody he loved.
I thought he had played a clever trick there
Because my brother never seemed to love anyone much.

But it seems, after all, that somebody meant something to him.
The one who always gave up the toy when he asked.
Even the sticks and the mud.
The one who would give him anything.

The doctor came to me in the night
And performed the operation.
My very last gift to my brother: my soul for his debt.
Perhaps after all he could not even stand
To even let me have that.

So now, in my shrunken and shuffling form
Perhaps it is time for me to take something back for myself.
So give me the warmth of your fire.
Give me the air in your lungs
Give me the life in your blood.
I am, after all, not my brother.
I, at least, appreciate the sacrifice of others.

So, this one bothered me. CN for rape. I feel like the other monsters in this sequence would disapprove of Tikbalang. I didn’t want to not acknowledge this horrible myth.

We’ve assembled a jury of your peers
Nuckelavee, Kelpie, Centaur, Pegasus
And an equal number of humans and horses.
We’ve tried our best to be representative.

Here’s the thing. Monsters kill people.
(No, not all of them, thank you Pegasus)
But it’s accepted. Killing humans is
Sometimes necessary. We’ve seen
What they’ve done to the rhino, for example.
The dodo, the great auk. Defenceless,

They died at the mercy of humans.
But we are monsters. We have weapons.
And we have every right to kill in self defense.
But Tikbalang, that isn’t what you did.
You stand here accused of multiple counts of sexual assault.

We find that unacceptable, as monsters,
And frankly, when you’re found guilty by such as us
You know you’ve gone too far.

I seen the snallygaster
I seen his great big wings
I seen the way his tentacles
Can pick up lotsa things.
I tell you, I ain’t lyin’
I seen him yesternight
I seen him changing colour
He went from black to white!

There ain’t no snallygaster.
It’s all a pack o’ lies
There ain’t no fearsome monster
With awful glowin’ eyes
You’re drinkin’ too much whisky
And what you think you saw
Was likely just a heron
So what you screeching for?

I tell you that I seen it
I swear it on my life
And I’d’ve killed the varmint
If I’d’ve had my knife
There is a snallygaster
My granny told me so
She saw it once when she was young
And that is how I know

I seen the snallygaster
As dreadful as could be
And if I’d drunk some whisky
It’s fortunate for me
For if I’d seen him sober
I’d sure enough be dead
Or sent out of my senses
By pure and chilling dread.

I tell you, snallygasters
Ain’t real, it’s just a tale
Your granny used to tell you
To try and make you wail
And what you seen’s a heron
Or, like as not, a snake
Or worse, as I’m suspecting.
You’re nothing but a fake!

Here comes the snallygaster
A crawlin’ after you.
And if he heard you talkin’
Who knows what he might do?
But if you don’t believe me
Just turn around and see.
But I’ll be heading home now
That varmint won’t get me!

Harpies were instruments of punishment sent by the Greek gods to hold the guilty to account.

So, honestly, what did you ever do wrong?
You know what the answer is, we know it too:
All your crimes, so you don’t even have to confess
We’re aware, it’s OK, there’s no need to impress.
Not with us. You’ve been waiting for ever so long
For someone to notice the things that you do
For someone to finally judge you, and say
“We know what you did and it isn’t OK”
All these years it just seemed as though nobody cared
What you’d done. Like you’d just got away with your crime!
You were guilty and nervous: don’t worry, we’re here.
They say fear itself’s the one thing you should fear
And that’s over! So come with us, do not be scared
You know what you deserve, and it’s finally time.

Oh Come into the water, my darling, my love.
If you follow my voice I’ll be easy to find
I’m lonely down here. Must you stay up above
Where the air is so thin? Leave the others behind

And just jump. They won’t miss you, but I’ll be distraught
If you sail on without me. I know that you’re lonely
I’m lonely as well. Do not give it a thought.
Come and join me down here, I’ll have eyes for you only.

Although you can’t see me, I’m sure you can guess
By my soft, gentle tones, that I’m ever so pretty!
But I can see you, and I have to confess
I’m already in love! So I beg you, take pity!

It is perfectly safe, and you’re not going to drown;
I’ll protect you. I swear, you’ll be happier here
So don’t hesitate now, take the plunge, come on down!
There’s plenty to gain, and there’s nothing to fear.

Oh my love, tell me why you are still hesitating!
You cannot resist me, you know that you’re mine!
And honestly I’m getting tired of waiting.
So get your arse down here. I’m ready to dine.

The Yuki-Onna is a Japanese spirit who lures people out into the snow. She is thought to be the soul of a woman who died of the cold.

Who once I was, I do not know
I know my newfound purpose though
On winter nights, my voice you’ll hear
As I lead you into the snow.

And once, I would have thought it queer
To lead you where no hope is near,
Perhaps into some freezing lake
The coldest evening of the year.

But now, this impulse I can’t shake
I know it can be no mistake
You mortals I must gently sweep
Into your beds of frost and flake

The cold is lovely, dark and deep
There’s no more promises to keep
And not too long before you’ll sleep
And not too long before you’ll sleep.

With apologies, obviously, to Robert Frost.