The Ghost Writer

With shaking hand and trembling pen, dare I now to write again? The horror dwells within my mind, imbues the dark and makes me blind. Yet still the retina views therein those threaded measures held ne'er so thin. Would that they 'd be absent there, forgone by that maudlin chair.


Here on the wood, on leafy sheets, hither it is that stone heart beats. Pon' the sheets tis' blot that Raven, the Nevermore image*, be it so graven. The feathers plead to be adjoined with the raven in sweet matrimony. To use their talents for phrases not coined nor words considered phony.

So here it is I sit in the most abominable Autumn. The frigid freezing air renders my fingers slightly numb. Minutest flames have brought my light to size, Courage must I muster through the frozen eyes.

Hardly a breath do I draw then I find my will bent, the foolish straw. Being thus empowered, steadfast I writ. "And oh, that tortured soul was made to be hit." All the power and my in'most soul I poured into those words; And twas' it then I found, scarcely been but heard.

On the sheet which I had etched, wherein the lines had been thither stretched. Yes, on that page another pen bled, colored of the scarlet thread*. Hither I shuddered to think, but I did not own that ink. Mayhaps' it I be dreaming or that entity again twas' scheming.

Be it of intrest to any of thee, my fears are founded in that entity. Nay, tis' but my own imagining. Tis' only this and no more thing*. I proceed sewing the thread upon the fabric, No sooner do I heed then the scarlet tis' written more thick.

Nay, nay, tis' but the flames bedeviling mine eyes. Aye, that it is, that what I do see must be a lie. Yet as the raven kissed the leaf, it's beak daintly breaching; As it haps' to mine ear there did come a horrid screeching.

Faster and faster the nightmare creeps. O'er it looms and will not let me sleep. Steadily I cast my gaze and to the page my eye did raise. Oh God, I wish I had not, for as I saw how I did shudder. Not a syllable could my lips utter. These were the words that were writ' in the red, and my inner core was most churned by what they said.

"Tis' not ink with which I write, but the blood of that whom you gave their plight. Here within this room, you led them to their doom. The chill you feel tis' not Autumn's air, But the breath of one who thought you fair. Sat they in the chair Maudlin named, and with Love's pretense to them you came.

Madst' thou sure that thee owned them in full, therefore the puppet strings you did pull. Using all you had in skill, wherefore you kissed as you did kill*. The debt in turn must be repaid and so retribution comes by the name of Merisaed." Torpidly my heart lept out of my chest and a hand of ice gently touched my breast.

And sent a shiver through my soul, what ere I saw did take it's toll. To the source of the hand did I rector and lo' it be non but a specter. Fear colored my eyes and their cryptic voice did rise. "Dearest love, whose love doth murder, seest' thou tis true. Gift that thou bestowed on me, I shall return to thee."

Whereat with a shriek I lept, disturbing the state I kept. Bottle shatters releasing the raven, which bleeds upon the page. Candle doth upsets itself, the flames begin to rage. Engulfing the leaves and then the wood, leaving not an ash, tis' gone for good.

Flame continues its ravenous path and latches onto me. Licking all of my vetements, burning with such glee. As they scorch and render me trapt', I feel upon my lips The frozen kiss of loving Death, and lightly my life slips.

With horror I awoke, found the nightmare to be broke. For truth, I had been asleep. In my bed where I did keep. Having tumulted in repose, from the cushion there I rose. I harried to my station, the place of my creations.

Merry to begin my work, twas' my duty I could not shirk. But as I began to write, into my eyes was a terrible sight. The ink I used was scarlet true, and by that sight twas' then I knew. Writ of ink so colored red, mem'ry twists inside my head.

So it was that I be late, evermore would be my fate. I have told you all there is to tell by the fading of the lighter. Doomed is the soul that tis' burdened to be that miserable Ghost Writer.


Ending note: The little * means a reference.

"that Raven, the Nevermore image" being a reference of course, to Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven. As is "only this and no more thing." 

"coloured of the scarlet thread" is a reference to Sherlock Holmes, A Study In Scarlet, "The scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life."

And finally "wherefore you kissed as you did kill" is a reference to Othello by William Shakespeare. "I kissed thee ere I killed thee."