Fadrian Bartley lives in Kingston Jamaica and has a diploma in CSR. His work appeared in few online web magazines included, The Ramingoblog, IHRAF (International Human Rights Art Festival), Mixedmag, Drunkenpenwriting, Pif magazine, Aphelion, and The Horror Zine.

Fadrian is a creative writer, and his favorite genre is dark horror stories and poems, with a vision to emulate Edgar Allan Poe, who has inspired the work of his hands.


Goosebumps and shivers
Twilight roses scented the hours.
Deep whispers and voice torture
Deadly blessing conspired.
Lodgment house beside sea shore
At the hour of chime there are banging doors.
Divers wailing at a frightening hour
Inherited things carry strange horror.
Hidden moon left large fireflies
To wander at a place where the family dies.
And the garden vines that takes the flower beds
Are where they buried the medieval dead.
Silence is fatal than disturb noises
Nightmares and candles can interpret voices.
Deep dreams are endless like sedative coma
When grounded on old vintage bed chamber.
With large silk curtain shadowed the wall
Strange whispers came from the empty hall.
With shifting and squeaking of old dusty chandeliers
At twelve midnight is the birth of fears.


Pillows of dark clouds overcast the element,
And a great book fell upon the earth.
The wind turns its pages
And the silence waited in anticipation.

The bleeding flowers fell like candle wax,
And the fishes took their mother’s
To the bottom of the sea,
And turn the mirrors around.

As the body of mother earth wept from her wounds,
The butterflies used the petals 
From the dying flower to dressed
her tender sores.

And the Bees build a kingdom into
The woods for their queen,
With the cedar of Lebanon
To prevent madness upon her.

And the Immortal beings stood at the attention
of the siren’s songs,
To watch the sea at war in the dreadful land.


He wore a veil of facial grimace,
behind it lies a psychological expression of innocence,
and eyes of twisted expression need to straighten out.
he doesn’t play with age of his own and his lips are sealed to cruel things.

His eyes have no slumber in the dead hours of the night,
and mom would listen behind the door
with those of whom he spoke,
in whispering silence that frightens her unbelief.

When anticipated their ghastly presence
and shifted their balance when disturbed
from the sound of an open door
she embraced her own suspicion

When looked upon his innocent face,
while he plays with a string of marmoset toy
and hanging beads.
you come to play with us, Mommy?

The reflection of his strange smile that increases her pounding heart,
when she saw no one around except Kevin, 
who sat in the silence of an empty space,
come to bed Honey, the hours are late!

But when she held his tiny hand
the door from behind her slammed
and left a massive crack above the door post, 
with the sounds of little children drifting into distant echoes,
and still Kevin didn’t say a word.