Caster the Furniture Ghost
Once upon a time
In a house that's suburban,
A family of four endures
Events quite disturbin'.
While everyone is sleeping,
A mysterious force is creeping.
I know it will sound surprising
And even super duper strange
But following the sun's rising,
All in the house is rearranged.
Nothing is where it should be --
They wonder what this could be.
Something very weird is afoot --
The furniture won't stay put.
Then the youngest has an idea so bright:
Set up a camera throughout the night.
So while ZZZs are caught and logs sawed,
During a great deal of snoring,
Activity on the cam is caught
That will be anything but boring.
It might clear up a lot,
Then again...maybe not.
But they'll be no ignoring.
While reviewing footage the next day,
Looks of shock and dismay on each face.
Not much that anyone could say
Except "Look at that!" and "No way!".
The couch slides across the floor
And stops right beside the door.
There goes the television stand --
Pushed by an invisible hand.
"Wait," says the mom, "did you guys see that?"
Right before the screen goes to black
A ghostly figure enters the frame,
Wearing coveralls and a red hat.
The creepy cameo sparks remembrance
Of a tragic tale that's often told
About a moving man that passed away
In that very house decades ago.
The poor guy was busy at work
When his mortal time ran out.
He didn't get to finish his work --
Might that be what all this is about?
To the family it's really spooky
But maybe he feels it's eternal duty?
Since there's no real ghost-zapping blaster,
They have decided to just live with it --
The kids call the apparition Caster.
BugaBOO!
Do you remember that time
When it felt like bugs
Were crawling up your spine?
Or what about when
You felt that tingling
All over your skin?
In the quiet of the night
You heard a bump and a thump
Then you felt those goosebumps?
Perhaps it's time to rethink ghosts --
Maybe life in the After
Is more diverse than we suppose.
If we could take a closer look
At the entities that do spook --
If we could inspect and dissect,
Would we detect spooky insects?
Before you roll your eyes and say "Hush!"
Consider what might happen to that bug
That just got stepped on and crushed.
What if every creepy crawler
That gets squashed and squished
Like people continues to exist?
Then imagine all that crawls
On the other side --
Every bug and parasite
That has ever lived then died.
Might this be the deal
Behind the feelings you feel --
Goosebumps and goosepimples
When fear gives your flesh a chill?
It could be a ghost-bug crawling on you.
But don't worry --
Bugs don't say "BOO!"
Ghostwriter
One day a book materializes
And floats off store shelves;
The other side of earthly farewells,
It describes and tells.
Upon its arrival,
It trends and goes viral;
There's no literary rival -
Life's AfterParty is the title.
THE DEFINITIVE GUIDE TO THE AFTERLIFE
So begins the book in spooky font;
The matter that follows after
Entertains as well as haunts.
The writer pulls back the curtain
On life that's beyond the grave;
Who is this spiritual expert?
The cover reads: Bianca Graves.
She writes about the Afterlife
With such vividness and flair;
If her readers didn't know better,
They'd bet that she's been there.
All across the nation,
In every city and station,
Folks are reading and tweeting
Quotes from the pages -
From Erie in Pennsylvania to Death Valley in California,
To the dusty ghost streets of Tombstone, Arizona.
"Wow," they say, "she's a great storyteller,
No wonder this book is a runaway bestseller!"
Considering the content,
The author's moniker is fitting;
But it turns up to be a pen name
After the press does some...*ahem*...digging.
The investigative trail, however, soon turns cold;
"Where is she? Who is she?"
Not a soul seems to know.
Despite the fame, acclaim and rave reviews,
Elusively she can't be reached for interviews.
WHO IS BIANCA GRAVES?
So go the headlines;
Newsrooms scramble for answers,
Squeezed by impending deadlines.
It's a mystery how the book came to be;
Amazingly there is no publishing history.
One day it doesn't exist;
The next day there it is.
Consider the sticker on the front,
At first glance it reads "First Edition" -
Perchance if the eyes stare enough,
The words morph into "Hearse Edition";
Can a label count as an apparition?
Those lucky enough to score a copy
Learn to read fast and not blink,
For the text tends to vanish
As if printed with disappearing ink.
There are photographs with the paragraphs
And they have the power to mesmerize -
For, tho' meticulously analyzed,
They depict landscapes and skies
Which nobody seems to recognize.
A book reviewer notices something peculiar
About the author headshot on the back -
Creepy and freaky,
It appears only briefly
Before completely waning and fading to black.
One day a curious academician,
Listening to his intuition,
Takes up a determined mission
To do some fact-finding fishin'.
He reasons, "This lady can't be nowhere,
She has to be somewhere" -
So he runs an image of her headshot
Through facial recognition software.
The results are shocking and hard to accept -
Bianca Graves, it turns out, has long been dead.
To be more precise,
That's true of Jillian Guice -
The real name of the elusive writer
Whose work set the modern world on fire.
Who knew you can be gone for centuries
Yet still make literary history?
Who knew you can be deceased
And still pen a masterpiece?
© Matt Decker
