The Crypt

I’d only been home for a week or two

And Jeanine was acting queer,

Each time she’d pass the mirror she’d stare

And I heard her say, ‘Oh dear!’

I’d been away for five long years

But she hadn’t changed a bit,

Each time I’d ask, she’d cover her ears:

‘I have to go to The Crypt!’

 

I thought that she meant the local club

Where they drank and danced all night,

‘Aren’t you a little too old for that,’

I’d say, and her face turned white.

‘You’re only as old as you feel,’ she snapped,

‘If only,’ was my reply,

‘Whether we like it or not, we age,

And then, we finally die.’

 

She put her hands to her ears, and shrieked,

‘Don’t ever say that to me!

You can die, but I’ll still go on,

I’ll be what I want to be.’

I stood quite shocked as she raved, she cried

And turned and ran from the room,

I didn’t know what to make of her,

So sat, half stunned in the gloom.

 

She’d always worried about her looks

Had made up her face for hours,

I’d said, ‘You’re really compulsive, Sis,’

She’d take innumerable showers.

I said, ‘You’re washing yourself away,

There’ll be no oil in your skin.’

‘But don’t you think that I’m beautiful,’

She’d say, with an evil grin.

 

She’d never married, but dated men

Who would compliment on her looks,

‘He said I’m like Cleopatra,’ or,

‘Like Helen of Troy in the books!’

‘Words are cheap,’ I would say to her

And she’d fly right into a rage,

‘You’re always trying to put me down!’

‘You’re like a bird in a cage!

 

Always fluffing your feathers up

To say, ‘Hey look at me!’

Don’t you care for the things in life

That are not complimentary?’

But she would shrug and ignore me then

She was vain beyond compare,

I didn’t know that she’d signed a pact

With the Devil, in her despair.

 

The weeks went by and her mood got worse,

She was nervous, I could see,

Her hands would tremble and she would curse

Applying her toiletry.

The wrinkles set in around her eyes

‘So much for that cream I bought!

I’ll have to go to The Crypt,’ she cried,

And burst in tears at the thought.

 

One day I spied her out in the street

Down by a ruined church,

She forced her way past the battened door

And disappeared with a lurch.

I waited hours, out there in the street

To see when she’d reappear,

Then realised she’d gone to the crypt

In the bowels of that church, in there.

 

She came out walking, as in a trance,

So beautiful, redefined,

I couldn’t believe the change in her,

I thought that I’d lost my mind.

The girl I saw was only a shell

Of the woman who once was whole,

Whoever she’d met in that evil crypt

Had walked away with her soul!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Ravyne Hawke]

I often think of the people today who get all that plastic surgery to make themselves look younger (but really alien!) have sold their souls to the Devil too.. in this day and age, your lady here would be going to a surgeon instead of a crypt. Great write, as always, David.. quite Poe-ish and entertaining.

[Baby Ricochet]

Cool story Mr Paget. One of those evil spell for beauty kind of a things. Women and vanity. You should see how long it takes my girlfriend to get ready to go somewhere, it's like forever. I gotta admit though, she looks great when she's done.

[Robert Lindsay]

The obsession with vanity leading to an empty soul that craves compliments.. A lot of humour there still but veering into the dark side just a little. I almost expected to find a dodgy plastic surgeon popping up at the end but no luck this time! :D

[Dennis]

You are an amazing story teller, this narrative flowed so smoothly and the rhyme was so natural it was almost invisible. Great development of story line and you capped it off with with that haunting last line...fantastic dear poet, Write On !

Dennis

[Dhaye]

Amusing! I don't think someone could exchange her soul in the devil for her youthful looks.

Nice narrative.

[Marie]

You'd be surprised.