Or: The Monster That Outlived Its Usefulness

An old ghost shuffles, wrapped in gloom,
Still renting out a dusty tomb.
It used to haunt with style and grace—
Now can’t keep up a steady pace.

It lumbers slow through fog and dirt,
Its cloak more mildew now than hurt.
It tries to howl, but wheezes dust—
Its scare routines have turned to rust.

Once brave men fled its chilling scream,
Now no one flinches from its dream.
Its moan once made the blood run cold—
Now phones distract the young and bold.

It tried to haunt a smart TV—
It glitched at two, then froze at three.
It whispered “Boo!” through old floorboards…
But folks just asked, “Hey, are those cords?”

It once lived off pure dread and fright,
Now dreads the end of Daylight Time.
Its graveyard’s now a dog park lot,
Where kids play tag and ghosts are not.

It floated up to scare a lad,
Who said, “That filter’s really bad.”
It howled into a baby cam—
The app replied, “Update your RAM.”

Its jumps and shrieks, its ancient doom—
All swapped out for a ring light’s bloom.
And every time it tries to screech,
It’s drowned beneath a Discord speech.

Its old friends lost their frightful gleam—
The witch’s broom is now a Beam.
The vampire’s got a dental plan,
The werewolf runs a vegan van.

No monsters hiding ‘neath the bed—
Just charger cords and earbuds dead.
No ghouls that groan or creak with dread—
Just low-batt warnings flashed in red.

So what do humans fear the most?
Not some old, half-forgotten ghost.
But sleek, new horrors none can flee—
Like lag. No bars. No LTE.

It joined a haunt support group chat,
With jaded bats and banshees flat.
Each week they moan the same old pain:
“How do we haunt when none remain?”

One ghost tried VR with a scare—
Got stuck inside a rental car.
Another Zoomed to cause a fright—
But froze mid-scream and lost the night.

The mummy hosts a YouTube show—
“Unwrap With Me!” (Three views. So-so.)
The horseman drives for rideshare apps,
Requests five stars for midnight claps.

They’ve all tried modern fright and fear,
But no one screams—they just say, “Weird.”
The Reaper tried out LinkedIn’s feed—
Now writes blog posts on death and greed.

The zombies mined for NFT—
But brains collapsed with crypto’s plea.
The creature once from deep lagoon
Now sells a branded sunscreen spoon.

Old horror’s not “a vibe” these days—
It lost the clicks, the shares, the craze.
It once ruled screens with dread and doom—
Now can’t out-scream a walk-in Zoom.

It haunts a Roomba just for fun,
Until it bumps into a bun.
It slams fridge doors, and creaks old floors—
Ignored while folks shop online stores.

A child once glimpsed its ghostly face,
Then filtered it with pastel grace.
“You’re kinda vintage,” they confessed.
“Can I tag you? You look depressed.”

So now it roams from screen to screen,
Not nightmare-fueled, just washed and clean.
It’s not the fear that’s lurking near—
It’s just nostalgic, quaint… and weird.

But sometimes through the pixel haze,
It spots a child lost in old ways—
With books, not screens, and quiet cheer,
Who doesn’t flinch when ghosts appear.

It rattles chains, lets out a shriek—
The child just smiles, “Old-school. Unique.”
So maybe horror’s not quite dead—
Just underwatched and underfed.

One day it might come back anew—
But first… it must update BooTube.

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Ulysses Arlen is a writer and poet based in India, with a deep appreciation for classical poetry and a flair for humor. By day, he works a desk job; by night, he writes. His work has appeared in the Society of Classical Poets as well as in some local publications.