The Nocturnal Visitor

Homage to Dickens and Poe

Floorboards creak; ceiling beams snap;

Walls crackle and pop.

Cold drafts chill me to the bone;

The shivers never stop.

I awaken at night to the sounds of moaning

That fill the house with grief.

An icy breath of anguish blows over me,

Allowing for little relief.

 

Lying awake, I wonder about

The cause of each eerie sound.

I’ll never know the answer unless

I take a look around.

Expansion, contraction, heat, cold:

A probable explanation;

But what explains the mournful moaning

That causes such consternation?

 

Feeling my way down the creaky stairs,

I shudder with coldness and fear--

Wanting to know but at the same time

Afraid of what might appear.

Silently standing at the base of the stairs,

I stare into the dark.

If asked how I felt, horror and dread

Would certainly hit the mark.

 

Groping the furniture, I sit on the sofa

And listen to the dead of the night;

I start to nod, then jump with a start,

Filled with panic and fright.

An amorphous figure appears before me--

Vague, undefined, obscure.

My fear turns into inexpressible sadness,

Which is difficult to endure.

 

“Are you a spirit?” I whisper, and wait.

At first I have little success.

Finally, I hear a soft, sobbing sound--

A plaintive, fragile “Yes.”

Yeah, right, I think, a spirit that haunts

My house. Isn’t that cool?
Is this a joke--somebody’s trick?

Do they take me for a fool?

 

“What draws you here to my house,” I ask.

“What is this perverse

Penchant you have for creaking and moaning?”

The spirit replies, “It’s a curse.

Years ago I lived in this home.

My life was happy and free.

Everything was going my way.

Now look what’s happened to me.

 

“The world was in my hands, it was;

I had everything under control.

Nothing could get the best of me

Till death bells started to knoll.

No! I refused to succumb or give in;

Too hot were the fires

Of greed and longing and wanting and having--

Too powerful were my desires.

 

“Too late I realized my mistakes;

Too late, too late, too late.

I’m stuck here to play out all of my longings.

This is my cruel fate.”

It occurs to me to ask of its gender;

I am curious to hear it.

“Are you a man or woman,” I ask.

It laughs and says, “Just a spirit.”

 

“I’m sorry for your pain,” I say,

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” it answers, “it’s up to me;

I must see this through.”

“Obviously, you’re not,” I continue,

“As quiet as a mouse.

But could you be so kind as to haunt

Someone else’s house?”

 

“Aha! So you think that THIS is humorous!”

Cries the spirit with a roaring.

“I was here long before you arrived;

And YOU disturb ME with your snoring!”

“I’m sorry,” I say, and ponder what

Could be a possible solution.

One thing I know: these night-time visits

Are not good for my constitution.

 

“How about this? Let’s make a deal,”

I suggest. “You’re free to roam

As much as you want and can make a loud racket

Whenever I’m not at home.

When I am here--asleep or awake--

So I can have peace of mind,

You be quiet and work on your karma,

If to do so you’re so inclined.”

 

“Deal! You’ve got my UNDYING promise,”

It responds with a voice full and sunny.

I think to myself: Now the spirit’s the one

Who’s trying to be funny.

I yawn and say I’m going back to bed,

And I give the spirit my best

And hope that soon--VERY soon--

It finds eternal rest.

 

I often think of the gloomy spirit

And wonder if it’s working its way

Through its torment and suffering, which I hope

Are finally fading away.

If I hear a creak or pop in the night,

Now peace and calm prevail;

I hope I’ve learned a lesson from my

Nocturnal visitor’s tale.

(7-25-14)