Poem: Haunted House

When I was ten, my folks helped a young couple move into this old house that had a history of tenants suddenly leaving for various reasons. The most recent tenants had left a lot of stuff behind, as if they'd been in a terrible hurry, so that had to be moved out first. In addition, a large nest of hornets had made their home near the top of the stairs, so they had to be sprayed.

My brother and I were not as a rule afraid of old structures, but this place terrified us -- especially upstairs, and particularly the third bedroom; even in full daylight it took everything in me to stand in the doorway and not run away.

Years later I wrote this poem, then drove out to find the old house and take some pictures with my mom's old Brownie camera. She'd taken a few pictures on the roll; I took several of the house to illustrate my poem. Then I gave the camera back and she finished the roll. When she got the pictures developed, hers turned out fine, but mine looked like I'd left the lens cap on, completely black. Except, Brownie cameras don't have lens caps.

Oh, and that couple didn't stay long in the house. I didn't find out why.


Haunted House

Those live who scoff at dreary haunts and laugh when others' eyes grow wide,
but no man knows a haunted house, or not, unless he's been inside --
and yes, I have, once or twice, and dared myself through darkened rooms,
whose seeping silence sapped a thrill unmatched by any carnival ride.

Cadav'rous it was, cold-gray from neglect, two stories and eerily haunting to see,
inside: a plethora of corners and halls, and even a narrow, walled staircase, and bees.
Yes, hornets haunted the upper rooms and begrudged the movement of any who called,
and even the Windows glared in at the gloom and despaired at the state they did not want to be.

In rooms there dwelt a chilly Fear that dully clothed itself in dust,
and hugged in-comers for their warmth, 'til they grew numb, as all men must.
But up the stairs and down the hall resided a Dread most cold of all,
which begged me please, good sir, to leave, and let the creaky doors to rust.

The House could tell its own brief tales of tenants come and quickly moved on,
and long years left between the days, when darkness slept past outside's dawn.
But charity brought me to ready this house, to rake back the age from the dead, leafy lawn
and dispose of the last tenants' worldly effects for a couple who nervously came, then were gone.