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A Haunted Charles McGuire – by Amy Leigh Cutler

October 24, 2010

A Haunted Charles McGuire  – by Amy Leigh Cutler

Charles rolled out of bed and reached for his robe,
Bleary eyed, toward the bathroom he trudged
It was still very early, not quite six a.m.
But there was a job to be done, and he was ready to do it

He cut himself shaving and then stubbed his toe,
And swore at the table while wiping off blood.
He wasn’t scared of the job, not afraid of being maimed,
Charles knew ghosts weren’t real, and was ready to prove it.

The journalist in him said “you’ll need facts to show
The critics and cynics that the story is a dud.
There aren’t ghosts on Staten Island and they don’t have names,
You’ll be back by dinner if you hurry up and move it. “

He took the ferry boat and planned how to probe,
Staten Island for ghosts when the boat docked with a thud.
The college would be first, then the New Dorp graves,
Finally the Billop house and his research would prove it.

At Staten Island College he tugged on his ear lobe
And when he pulled away his hand it was covered in blood.
He screamed and jumped but it was from 6 a.m.
When he’d cut himself shaving because he was trying to move it.

If the ghost of a murdered girl wandered to and fro,
He didn’t see her dragging her doll through the mud.
But he did hear the song of young children well behaved,
And couldn’t find the source of the harmonized duet.

It started to rain as he headed passed the grove,
To the cemetery where he sank into green muddy sludge.
The song of mystery children had made him uneasy and strained,
And he was determined to find nothing else and win his bet.

The wind howled as he wandered from grave to stone,
With his head down til he walked into something with a thud.
It was a man in a gray suit who looked annoyed and dismayed,
That Charles had come to the cemetery just to walk through it.

Charles tried to say sorry but before he let a word go,
The man was gone and Charles felt the warm of his blood
Drip down from his ear onto a cracked grave.
It was just coincidence and at the Billop house he would prove it.

He was muddy, disheveled, and ready to go,
And the start of fear was blooming in his heart like a bud.
But he pulled himself together and calmed down his shakes,
Because his pride told him to press on and push through it.

The Billop house creaked, it was angry and old
And the rain came harder and harder like the flash of a flood.
Charles moved fast and loud upstairs and through each doorway
Past a woman and child who were mostly translucent.

He kept going, ignored them and was suddenly cold,
Except for the warm in his ear that he knew was his blood.
“I don’t believe in ghosts!” He tried to shout them away,
And stepped in a soft place in the floorboard and fell right through it.

When the police found Charles the story was two days old,
It was Halloween night and his feet were covered in mud.
They knew he’d been looking and found the same day,
The story of a lifetime that he could make the news with.

The End

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One Comment leave one →
  1. Anthony Russo permalink
    October 27, 2010 9:48 PM

    That’s an awesome story. After reading it, I’m having second thoughts about my Halloween reservations at the local cemetery. I’m curious to read the Amy Leigh Cutler tale of a peculiar Thanksgiving.

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