Creepy poems build dread through a visitor at the door, a lover who is too calm, or a mind turning on itself.
Poe’s “The Raven,” Browning’s “Porphyria’s Lover,” and Dickinson’s “I felt a Funeral, in my Brain” turn up on list after list of scary verses.
Few of them rely on gore, because a speaker tells you something terrible in an even voice and leaves you alone with it. A knock at a door is enough to start one.
Here is what this guide covers: Five public domain poems, printed in full and grouped by the kind of fear they trigger. For the festive side of October, seeour Halloween poems collection.
What Makes a Poem Creepy
A poem is creepy when it builds dread through what it withholds: A knock nobody answers, a calm speaker describing something terrible, a refrain that returns once too often. Gore is rare.
Most of the poems below are frightening through restraint, repetition, and a familiar room made strange.
Three habits show up again and again.
The first is a speaker the reader cannot fully trust, as in Browning’s murderer, who narrates a killing as if it were a kindness.
The second is repetition, which can make a refrain feel like a footstep coming closer, the way Poe’s “Nevermore” and Dickinson’s “treading, treading” do.
The third is silence, the answer that never comes and the thing that does not move.
Poets who work this way give us less than we want and let the imagination fill the gap, which is why a short poem can frighten longer than a gruesome one.
Poems that are bleak rather than frightening belong withour collection of dark poems, so the five below are arranged by the kind of fear they trigger, starting at the front door.
Famous Scary Poems About Visitors at the Door
Some of the most frightening scenes in poetry happen before anything is seen. These two famous scary poems begin with someone, or something, on the other side of a door.
“The Listeners” by Walter de la Mare
De la Mare’s poem first appeared in The Listeners and Other Poems in 1912, and at thirty-six lines it is one of the shorter creepy poems here.
A traveler knocks on a moonlit door, asks whether anyone is there, and gets no reply from a house the poem fills with phantom listeners.
Watch the final stanza, where silence itself seems to move. Ourfull analysis of The Listeners covers its rhythm and its open ending.
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
‘Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:–
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
Credit: Walter de la Mare, “The Listeners,” The Listeners and Other Poems (Constable and Company, 1912). Public domain in the United States.
“The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe
Poe’s poem first appeared in the New York Evening Mirror on January 29, 1845, and it made him popular in his lifetime.
A grieving narrator meets a bird that answers every question with one word, and the horror lies in how he keeps asking after he knows what the answer will be.
In his 1846 essay “The Philosophy of Composition,” Poe claimed he built the poem logically and methodically, and the internal rhymes and refrain are part of that plan.
Watch the last stanza, where the bird stops being a visitor and becomes a fixture.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore–
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door–
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;–vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow–sorrow for the lost Lenore–
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore–
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me–filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door–
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;–
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”–here I opened wide the door;–
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”–
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore–
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;–
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door–
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door–
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore–
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning–little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door–
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered–not a feather then he fluttered–
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before–
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore–
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never–nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore–
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee–by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite–respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!–prophet still, if bird or devil!–
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted–
On this home by Horror haunted–tell me truly, I implore–
Is there–is there balm in Gilead?–tell me–tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!–prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us–by that God we both adore–
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore–
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting–
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!–quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted–nevermore!
Credit: Edgar Allan Poe, “The Raven,” first published in the New York Evening Mirror, January 29, 1845, text follows the standard revised version, which differs slightly from the 1845 printings. Public domain.
Creepy Poems About Love Turned Predatory
Once the visitor is inside, the fear changes shape. In these two poems, love and hunger become the same thing, and the speaker or the lover is the one doing the hunting.
Together they cover the darkest side of creepy poems about love.
“Porphyria’s Lover” by Robert Browning
Browning first printed this poem in January 1836 as “Porphyria” in the Monthly Repository, then reissued it in 1842 under the title “Madhouse Cells,” paired with a second monologue.
The speaker strangles his lover with her own hair and reports that she felt no pain.
Watch how calm the rhythm stays, in five-line stanzas rhyming ABABB, even as the action turns violent, and how the final line registers that God has said nothing.
The rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me–she
Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!
Credit: Robert Browning, “Porphyria’s Lover,” first printed as “Porphyria” in the Monthly Repository, January 1836, text follows the 1842 printing in Dramatic Lyrics (Edward Moxon). Public domain.
“La Belle Dame sans Merci” by John Keats
Keats wrote this ballad in April 1819, and it was printed in The Indicator on May 10, 1820, its only publication during his lifetime.
A knight describes how a fairy woman lulled him to sleep on a hillside, where he saw pale kings and warriors warning him.
Watch the last stanza, which repeats the opening images so that the knight stays exactly where the poem began.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful–a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said–
I love thee true.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dream’d–Ah! Woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death pale were they all;
They cried–“La belle dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!”
I saw their starv’d lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake
And no birds sing.
Credit: John Keats, “La Belle Dame sans Merci,” written April 1819; first published in The Indicator, May 10, 1820. Text follows Keats’s 1819 manuscript version, which differs in wording from the 1820 printing. Public domain.
Creepy Poem About the Haunted Mind: “I Felt a Funeral, in My Brain” by Emily Dickinson
The last poem leaves the door and the lover behind. Here the fear sits inside the speaker’s head, which is the hardest place to escape.
Written around 1861 and first published in 1896 in Poems, Third Series, this sixteen-line poem is the shortest entry on this page and a natural starting point among short creepy poems.
The speaker listens to a funeral taking place inside her own head. Watch how the sounds repeat, “treading, treading” and “beating, beating,” until the reader hears them too.
The manuscript adds a closing stanza in which a plank in reason breaks and the speaker falls, which the 1896 printing left off.
I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.
And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.
And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again.
Then space began to toll
As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.
Credit: Emily Dickinson, “I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,” written c. 1861, first published in Poems, Third Series (Roberts Brothers, 1896). Public domain text follows the 1896 printing.
Which Creepy Poem to Read First
If you are new to creepy poems for adults, start with “The Listeners,” which can be read in two minutes and never explains itself.
Readers who like a story with a clear plot will do better with “The Raven” or “La Belle Dame sans Merci,” while those drawn to a disturbing narrator should go straight to “Porphyria’s Lover.”
Dickinson’s poem is the quickest jolt at only sixteen lines. Most of these were written for adults, so younger readers will find gentler choices in our Halloween material.
Sum Up
Creepy poems rarely shout. The five here frighten through a knock that goes unanswered, a calm confession, a refrain that keeps returning, and a mind that supplies its own horrors.
Each rewards a second reading once you know where the dread comes from.
Choose the poem closest to your own kind of fear and read it aloud, slowly, in a quiet room, noting the line where your attention tightens, because that is where the poet is doing the work.
Then share your pick with a friend who loves a good fright, or browse our Halloween poems for something lighter.
Frequently Asked Questions
What Is the Difference Between Gothic and Horror Poetry?
Gothic poetry belongs to a literary tradition that peaked in the 18th century alongside Romanticism, while horror poetry has no fixed period or style and aims straight at fear. A poem can be both, as Keats’s “La Belle Dame sans Merci” is.
What Is a Dramatic Monologue in Scary Poetry?
A dramatic monologue has one speaker and an implied listener, and the reader senses a gap between what the speaker says and what he reveals. Browning’s “Porphyria’s Lover” is the classic case, since the killer calls his act a kindness and the reader sees otherwise.
Are There Funny Creepy Poems?
Yes, some poets play a ghostly encounter for laughs. Hughes Mearns’s “Antigonish” has a speaker meeting a man on the stairs who is not there, and the tone stays light even though the premise is eerie. It makes a good palate cleanser after the heavier poems above.
