The Pot Belly Stove

The cabin had sat at the edge of the woods

Since Eighteen fifty-two,

It still belonged to our family,

So I guess that meant me too,

I found myself in need of a roof

And they hadn’t been there for years,

So I swallowed my pride, and hitched a ride

And forced the door with a curse.

 

It was down on the Tasman Peninsula

Was built by my fifth great-great,

He’d been picked up in a London mob

And suffered a convict fate,

He’d done his time with the cat ‘o nine

And had broken rocks for the road,

For seven years and a bucket of tears

He’d suffered the convict code.

 

His Ticket-of-Leave had set him free

So he’d headed into the woods,

Taken a common law wife with him

And a few of their paltry goods,

He’d cleared a section and cut the trees

For the cabin that sits in the grove,

And the one embellishment that he brought,

An American Pot Belly Stove.

 

The stove still sat in the corner there

It hadn’t been lit for years,

I sat on the sagging miners couch

Gave way to a fit of tears,

The branches of trees had ventured in

The water was drawn from a well,

The door at the rear just hung and creaked,

I thought I’d arrived in hell.

 

I lit an age old paraffin lamp

That luckily still had fuel,

Searched my bag for a scrap to eat

But all that I had was gruel,

The sun went down and the dark set in

To the sounds of the wind outside,

Rustling through the tops of trees

And the leaves of the trees inside.

 

At midnight, I awoke with a start

To the sound of an evil roar,

More like a man than an animal

Standing at my front door,

I braced myself by the door, it roared

And then it began to pound,

‘What do you want?’ I screamed on out.

‘You’re sitting on hallowed ground!’

 

‘I want what’s properly mine,’ it said,

‘And then I’ll leave you alone.’

My teeth were chattering then, in fright

When it gave out another groan.

‘I’ll never rest ‘til I get it back,

I need it to make me whole,

A hundred years since they carved me up

I’ve waited to claim my soul!’

 

I looked across to the ancient stove

Where a mist was rising up,

A pale blue mist from the rusted flue

And I thought, ‘That’s it! Enough!’

The mist was taking a human shape

The shape of a surly man,

Wearing an age old Warder’s cap

But lacking a good right hand.

 

I crawled across to the iron stove

And I opened wide the door,

The bed was full of the clinker they

Had burned there, years before.

But buried deep in the ashes there

When I brushed aside the sand,

I saw a shape that had made me gape,

The bones of a human hand.

 

‘Is this the hand you are looking for?’

The thing gave out a groan,

‘Come out, and push it under the door,’

I heard the creature moan.

I did, then packed my bag and I burned

The cabin, deep in the grove,

I’ll never go near a house again

That has a Pot Belly Stove!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Claire in VA]

Eerie. As I read this, I heard a tap-tap-tapping at my front door. Thankfully it
was just the cat. Equally as thankfully, she had all four paws. As usual, your story wraps
its arms around me and doesn't let me go. The rhyme
and meter acts as a magnet , and the story is compelling. You
have got to be the most-adored father, grandfather, and
great-grandfather if you share these tales with your family.
Fantastic writing, my newfound friend.

[A Soap Mess Stories]

Another scary great tale David.

[Raymond Federle]

Fabulous write! Enjoyed it greatly! :)

[Tate Morgan]

My kin all sit around the potbelly stove to tell their tales I wonder if our ancestors ever set beside us listening in Good one

[Baby Ricochet]

Hey at least he got his hand back

[Marie]

I remember this kind of stove when I was very young. Never dreamed one could be evil, though...

[David Scott]

Hello dear friend,

It has been a while. You still find a way to make me lean in and read with great intensity. I feel my mouth curl in a grin as the smoke rises and this shade forms from the ether.

You have a singular gift David. Thank you again for sharing it here with the readers of WC.
Scott