We bought the house on Maple Hill,
ignoring what they said,
that old man Jenkins' ghost was there
and walked among the dead.
The home he built with his own hands
along the countryside,
has now been empty forty years
since Harold Jenkins died.
His murderer was never caught
nor motive ever found.
It's rumored he hid stolen wealth
in jars beneath the ground.
My wife and I did not believe
this tale that many feared,
until one night, while in our bed,
his horrid ghost appeared.
A withered man with wrinkled skin,
his eyes held discontent.
He only stared while we stared back,
we felt no ill intent.
Two bullet holes were in his chest
that killed him, I assume.
He slowly faded in the dark
and vanished from the room.
As weeks went by, we saw him more,
at different times of night.
We'd cringe each time that he appeared
and shuddered at the sight.
One night I watched him walk outside.
The night air made no sound.
I followed through the maze of trees.
He pointed to the ground.
I thought of rumors of his wealth
and pondered of their worth.
I then believed the tale of jars
that rest beneath the earth.
I hurried back and grabbed the tools,
a shovel, pick and flare.
Then dug a hole where Harold stood
and found his money there.
I ran inside and told my wife
with dirt smeared on my face,
that now we're rich from treasure found
at Harold Jenkins' place.
So, since he made us wealthy too,
we told him he could stay,
as long as he'd start wearing clothes
and hide that schlong away.
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| Writing Prompt |
Write a ghost story of any length, in a poem of any type. Let's celebrate Halloween! |
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Traditional Ghost Story.
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