Fletcher's House

One more time the ramp appears, I swing the wheel to the right,
A short way down the dismal road, the station looms in sight.
E’en more run down than way back then, an insult to the eye,
At first I stare, then look away and quickly pass on by.

Further along that lonely road, the memories return.
A melancholy mood grabs hold, what is it I can learn?
Maybe nothing’s to be learned, curiosity appeased,
But many precious things are lost by timeliness not seized.

That’s why I’m on this lonely road, where I was once before,
And seeking out that obscure place that I just can’t ignore.
No grizzled helper with me now, to show me where to go,
I know it’s there on Fletcher’s road, that haunted bungalow.

I told him on that fateful day, the house would tell some tales,
About when Fletcher lived out here, his trials and his travails.
It’s hidden now, o’ergrown with weeds, that years have left behind.
That’s why I thought I’d travel there, to see what I could find.

The radio is turned up loud, it’s company I need.
It occupies me as I think of just how to procede.
I’m almost there, the car slows down, I see the weeds and brush.
The house peeks out among the trees, a huge adren’lin rush.

I quickly switch the engine off, the silence fills my ears.
The house looms high above my head, much battered by the years.
Its flaking paint and weathered board and windows with no glass
Are lessons in what happens when we hide and let time pass.

I’m quickly out, the door slams shut, it echoes through the trees,
Combining with the chilling wind in ghastly melodies.
A deep breath gets my courage up, my feet begin to move.
I’m not sure what I’m doing here, nor what I need to prove.

I fight my way through tangled weeds, I’m aiming for the door.
Then up the steps, across the porch, my foot goes through the floor.
I try the lock, a twist and turn, and then a creaking sound.
It’s swinging wide into the dark, at last I’m inward bound.

My first few steps are tentative, as eyes seek to adjust,
But quickly I begin to cough, assailed by swirling dust.
A sneeze rings out, I shake my head, it seems as if the air
Surrounds me with a musty gloom, a tainted presence there.

There’s nothing there that can be seen, yet something grips my soul.
Old Fletcher’s ghost, or something else? It twists to gain control.
My insides churn, my eyes are teared, I think I’m losing but,
A mighty gust of wind blasts through – the creaking door slams shut.

And then a vision fills my eyes, or maybe just my brain.
Staccato pictures, wailing sounds, a hideous refrain.
My eyes squeeze shut, my ears rebel, could this place be my tomb?
Then suddenly the sound of chains and smell of cheap perfume.

A flash of light, then thunder rolls, and there before my eyes,
A spectral form outlined in red is veiled in grim disguise.
A woman, she, from sound of voice, a vile and wretched shriek,
And as it echoes from the walls I’m feeling frail and weak.

It’s Fletcher’s woman, no one else, from stories that I’ve heard,
But what I’ve stumbled into here is just a bit absurd.
The Fletcher house, o’ergrown with weeds, now holds me in its grip,
It’s not at all what I had planned when I began this trip.

Then to the sound of moaning wind the specter beckons me,
My will held captive by her spell, I’m powerless to flee.
I follow meekly through the door, imagine my surprise,
A tableau spread before me that could lead to my demise.

The room is set up like a stage, with me the only guest,
I’m seated in the royal box, but somehow don’t feel blessed.
And just off stage there on the right is he, just barely seen.
She in the front and he the back, a dank mist inbetween.

Quite suddenly the play begins, the actors take their place,
A calmness seems to settle in, a blank look fills my face.
This whole thing seems a paradox, so real and yet nonsense,
And yet I’m clinging to my seat, spellbound by this suspense.

The man steps to the stage, front right, and, coughing, clears his throat,
And pulls a paper from his shirt, it’s something that he wrote.
Addressing me, he smiles my way, “This here’s my codicil.”
His yellowed teeth fill me with dread, I feel a sudden chill.

He gestures t’ward the woman there, the specter glowing red,
And she, while clutching at her throat, falls over as though dead.
“Pay her no mind,” the other says, “its me you should believe.
She thinks that by deceiving you she’ll gain a last reprieve.”

His voice was strangely gentle as he smiled a crooked smile,
But something in his face and eyes was evil and quite vile.
“You know that I am Fletcher and that she’s my grieving mate.
Please pay attention to my words and kindly sit up straight.”

A screech rings out from far stage left. “You see how he can be?
You’re a guest here in our house and just you wait and see.
He’s critical to start things off and then he turns real mean,
And what can happen after that is vulgar and obscene.”

My body shakes as restless eyes dart first to him, then her.
My mind is numb, bewitched somehow, and I’m a prisoner.
Held not by chains nor binding straps, nor locks, nor prison cell,
Yet powerless to run or flee, I’m trapped in Fletcher’s hell.

The play goes on, the dialogue is scripted and quite clear.
It plainly is no accident that I’ve been summoned here.
Or is it just coincidence, a quirk of my strange fate,
That made me want to come back here, a damnable mandate.

Suddenly things get serious, a finger points my way.
The Fletcher woman’s eyes are glazed, she moans and starts to sway.
“He killed me right here in this room, you’re got to understand,”
She’s pointing at the bloody knife, displayed in Fletcher’s hand.

“The woman’s tetched, demented, daft,” old Fletcher counters back.
“Pay her no nevermind at all, she’ll get you off the track.
“It’s she killed me, that’s how it went, she thinks that she has won.”
Old Fletcher smiled and tipped his head toward the smoking gun.

Now each one glared and loudly laughed, then each one looked my way.
“You’ve made your way to this old house, now let’s hear what you say.”
She waves the gun and he the knife, the smoke and blood now mix,
And I just want to run and hide and leave these lunatics.

Then suddenly it seems quite plain, just what had happened here.
First he stabbed her, the she shot him, that seems so very clear.
I stand and tell them what I think, and each one grunts in turn,
Some looks exchanged, the knife and gun sure make my stomach churn.

But wait a minute, why be scared, the Fletchers are just ghosts,
And I’m the uninvited guest, and they’re my phantom hosts.
But if they’re phantoms and not here, then what have I just seen?
A man and woman both long dead, with me thrust in between.

Frozen to my chair I watch as two ghosts rise and glare.
As silly as I know it seems, I wish that I weren’t there.
Foul eyes blaze red, the gun and knife are poised and aimed my way,
And from the look of things right now I think I shouldn’t stay.

But how to move, it seems as if I’m frozen to this spot,
The victim of this haunted house and Fletcher’s tainted plot.
They both approach, about to strike, I cringe and wait to die,
The last thing heard as dark descends is my unhuman cry.

I hear the sounds of woods and field, a bird sings close at hand,
My leg is sore, but not too bad as carefully I stand.
I eye the badly rotted board, the one that made me fall,
A tender knot above my ear, then things that I recall.

I eye the tightly padlocked door, the windows closed and sealed,
And ponder on what I have seen and what the house concealed.
I shrug and smile, my lesson learned, and touch the tender knot,
Perhaps I’d better think this through, and change my plans somewhat.

I gimply limp back to my car and quickly jump inside.
I click the locks and scoot way down, my terror magnified.
And then I laugh through tremb’ling lips and pull myself up straight,
Amazed at what a house and mind can quickly recreate.

I start the car and swiftly leave old Fletcher’s house behind.
‘twas just an hour or so ago, I wondered what I’d find.
Two specters with a story in a house that’s fraught with sin,
I’m contemplating as I drive just when I’ll go again.