Ghost story


This house has been abandoned for a long time

Not many come here anymore

But I still do

The signs of people are still here

The messages scribbled on walls

Empty bottles and cans

Discarded cigarette butts

A vile, non-working, but still used, toilet

A brown stained mattress in one bedroom

The leftover wrappers, formerly belonging to now used condoms

There are traces of activity left by animals

A semi-devoured cat

Claw marks and the work of jaws and teeth on baseboards

Droppings which litter every room

The house itself in rather unlivable disdain

There is a foul smell of decay and mold

Warped floorboards and rotting walls

A sunken roof, alive with growing moss

Some might attribute the ‘cold spots’ to cryptesthesia

Perhaps long past dwellers

Locked away in here forever

But I see them differently

Like comforting old friends

Always abuzz when I come by

Serenading me with creaks and scratches

From other rooms and behind walls

Like a complimentary performance

Of vocal music in the open air at night

As if by a lover, thrilled to see me again

Like comforting old friends

Even if I don’t stay long

© Dicky J Loweman 2014



The Alley

Alleys are where bad things happen at night

We’ve all been warned about this before

However, after a successful night of pub crawling

You look so inviting

I feel a sudden pull, to walk into the darkness just beyond

And anyway, you cut my walk home in half

Come along, child

Walk with me

Afterall, what could possibly go wrong?

The Echo Of Her Front Door

I love our sleepovers

Alone and lying next to you

Waking up with you next to me

Stepping out into the morning’s first light

Into the warm sunshine

But I don’t think I should sleep here tonight

You have that other guy

The one who checks in on you, every night

He makes me nervous

He talks to you

like I’m not even there

Maybe it’s just too dark to see

I’m not sure


I think I should go

I’ll bring you some fresh picked flowers in the morning

Until then, just one more kiss

Dear, your lips are as cold as stone

They look grey and weathered

Maybe it’s only flickering of the candlelight

But now I have to go

Please, don’t worry

I’ll remember to put the doormat back askew

And throw some dead leaves by the door

Of course, I promise

To shut the door softly

So as not to echo off the other mosaliums

© Dicky J Loweman 2014