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  • Writer's pictureMichael Bastianelli

Shadows of the Turnpike

In the shadows of the Turnpike, where the weary engines moan,

Lurks a creature born of darkness, in the ditches all alone.

Through the murky, foggy marshes, where the ghostly lanterns gleam,

In the land of Jersey's twilight lies a tale that haunts our dreams.


'Neath the gloom of moonless nights, when the air is thick with dread,

On the edge of murky waters, silent whispers fill our head.

Tales of sorrow, tales of torment, tales of horrors left untold,

In the ditches of the Turnpike, there's a secret to unfold.


Beneath the veil of mist and haze, the creature hides its face,

A living nightmare, an endless void, a soul bereft of grace.

Its twisted form, a ghastly sight, a sinewy mass of dread,

The children weep and elders warn, "Beware the dark ahead."


By the flicker of the lanterns, shadowed tendrils creep and crawl,

As the creature in the ditches starts to heed its morbid call.

The very air begins to quake, as piercing cries invade the night,

And in the realm of the forsaken, terror takes its flight.


The stench of death and rotting flesh hangs heavy in the air,

As the creature from the ditches preys upon our darkest fears.

Its eyes, like glowing embers, burn with malice and despair,

A chilling, haunting presence that few mortals dare to bear.


Down the haunted highway, where the damned souls often roam,

In the shadows of the Turnpike, lies the creature's ghastly home.

In the ditches of New Jersey, where the wicked often tread,

Lurks a chilling, twisted monster, born from nightmares, born of dread.


So beware, ye weary traveler, as you journey through the night,

For in the ditches of the Turnpike, fear and horror take their bite.

Let your heart be filled with caution, and your spirit armed with might,

For the creature in the darkness waits to strike, and snuff the light.

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