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 deep 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; 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!”
The spirit thunders 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 say. “You’re free to roam
As much as you want, and you can be loud
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 you’re so inclined.”
 
“Deal! You’ve got my UNDYING promise,”
It responds with a voice full and sunny.
I think to myself: Now it'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 wonder if the gloomy spirit
Is still working its way
Through its torment, which I hope
Is being held at bay.
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.

- by Bob B