Ghosts in the Attic

Ghosts in the Attic
by
E C Wesch

Nightly noises extolled from above.
Memories forgotten, of shattered love.
Peaceful dreams, were naught to be had.
Her screams in the night, driving him mad.

The ghosts in the attic, whaling above.

He murdered her, on a warm summer's eve.
Choked her lifeless, and did not grieve.
Wrapped her in plastic, then shoved in a trunk,
Like all of his other, people of junk.

The ghosts in the attic, they couldn't leave.

The music played louder, to drown out the sound,
Of screams, tears, and hearing them pound.
Nightly crescendos often erased,
By trips to a movie, in desperate haste.

The ghosts in the attic, were earthly bound.

Candles flickered in his darkened room.
Dancing at midnight, escaping the gloom,
Odors from the attic up above,
Drifting down, like a falling glove.

The ghosts in the attic, a feeling of doom.

He climbed the stairs at a tentative pace.
His tormentors now he wanted to face.
Opened the door, let out a scream.
Piled to the ceiling, stacked beam to beam.

The ghosts in the attic, toward him they did race.