The House On Menlough Hill - Parts 1,2,3
Legends, myths and fairy-tales; like shadows they dwell in mist.
Mysteries that fascinate now goad me on in my quest.
Urban tale or fantasy - just what lies or truths be told?
Adventure now awaits me as fate doth beckon the bold.
The house was long abandoned and the lane's been overgrown.
Menlough died ten years ago, yet the cause was never known.
The poor missus had gone insane, or so the story goes.
Some say they hear their voices still when the cold March wind blows.
I refuse to believe in hauntings - ghosts are quite absurd.
Scientific reasoning is what I have long preferred.
So I set out on this quest on my best friend's tempting dare-
the light seen in the window, to prove that it's just not there.
I make my way through thistles, nasty thorns and waist-high weeds.
Climb the path up Menlough hill and then follow where it leads.
The house is now within my sight, I tarry as I stare.
There's a flicker in the window, I wonder how I'll fare?
The moon is shining up above, a full one - who could guess?
I contemplate my next step as my fear I now confess.
A chilling wind has picked up now, the light yet flickers on.
I could swear I saw a shadow running there 'cross the lawn.
I crawl toward the window, the flickering light now gone.
Was it ever really there or am I some cosmic pawn?
I slowly rise to peek on in, nothing but rot and dust.
Laughing to myself I leave, this thing has turned out a bust!
As I begin my descent i see a shadow next to mine.
I freeze right where I'm standing, locked in space and time.
A voice now whispers coarsely: "Son leave and never come back."
I thaw out and then start running, the moonless sky now black.
Hurriedly I run back home and bolt the door behind me.
My heart is pounding like crazy, I brew some herbal tea.
Just then a memory flash, something I'd read years before...
Mrs. Menlough had escaped the asylum, and was heard from again nevermore.
I laughed to myself once more as logic triumphs again.
Surely the shadow was her, it all now seems rather plain.
I comfort in the knowledge that all is right with the world-
but don't ever dare me to go there again, the thought of it makes my toes curl!
The House on Menlough Hill 2 (The Return)
I swore I'd never visit that old dreadful house again,
the one that sits upon the hill where legends twist and spin.
It's been three years since I transgressed that hilly, weedy trail.
The dreams still haunt my days and nights - that awful, shrilly wail.
My sense of logic tells me that the voice was Mrs. M,
escaped from the state asylum and e'er since been on the lam.
I don't believe in ghosts or ghouls or leprechauns and such,
yet what I sensed that fateful night still frightens me so much.
The thing that goads me onward in my foolish, silly quest-
how did Mr. Menlough die and was his soul at rest?
Could it be his crazy wife had done him in unnoticed?
If she did the crime would be this town's most cruel and boldest.
I waited for a new moon eve when things were lit up well-
odd shadows cast on yonder hill, a distant clanging bell.
I make my way through brush and thorns just like I'd done before.
A sick'ning dread now fills my gut and rocks me to the core.
A hooting owl lets out her hoot, I stand there in my tracks.
Wolves off in the distance howl, maybe seven in the pack?
The object of my dread's still missing, maybe I should go.
But just as I begin to turn I hear a voice so low.
It hisses:
"Son, turn around and leave this place and never come again.
The answers you are looking for aren't here my trembling friend.
Menlough died while tillin' this old farm and that's the truth.
He died right here before my eyes, no need to offer proof."
I look around and see no one, yet sure I'd heard a voice.
Should I leave or should I stay, this is my sober choice.
I cry out:
"Before I go I'd like to sit and chat with you a while,
I know it's late but could we please, I've walked so many miles.
The dreams I've had make me believe there's more to say and tell.
Please show yourself and set things straight, release me from this hell.
Then suddenly I feel a hand upon my shoulder tap,
I follow her into the house - but could this be a trap?
I never see her face, 'tis veiled, her flowing gown is torn,
what horrid things might she reveal, what evil had been born?
To my surprise she offers tea and lights a candle soft,
the hooting owl I'd heard before now perched high on her loft.
We sit and talk for endless hours, at least that's how it seems.
It all is so surreal to me, surpassing all my dreams.
I left that night believing that her innocence was true,
just why I had thought otherwise I now had not a clue.
Someday I think I'll go back and revisit Mrs. M,
this time without suspicion, I'll go just as a friend.
The House on Menlough hill 3 (Adieu)
As life moves on so many things fill up these endless days,
the wheel just keeps on spinning, hoping it's just a phase.
Rank boredom seems to be the rule not much to do or say,
I'm thinking that I'll visit her, tomorrow or today.
By her I mean that grand old dame who goes by Mrs. M,
the widow who once haunted me, the one set free from blame.
It's been a year I wonder how she's doing, how she's fared,
as far as I can tell no one has gone there, no one's dared.
Menlough died while tillin' his old farm, or so she said,
one wonders if the truth's been told, or had she lied instead?
The last time I approached that battered house upon the hill,
she spoke to me in shrilly tones that caused my heart to still.
Insanity thus spurs me on, I set out on my trek,
jog down the lane to Menlough Hill, my wisdom circumspect.
A moonless night with fog so thick I barely see ahead,
start plodding up that weedy trail as fear fills me with dread.
Strangely there's no hooting owl or wolves to break the silence,
no shrilly wails or shadows as I climb up o'er the fence.
The quiet serves to heighten my anxiety a notch,
what I'd give for an herbal tea right now - or maybe Scotch.
The light that once had flickered in the window now is gone,
my heart keeps pounding harder as I ponder moving on.
The fog surrounds the house just like a blanket 'round a pig,
I thought I saw a head peek out but no, 'twas just her wig.
I knock and wait for just a bit but no one seems to stir,
just then I hear a noise within, I wonder - is it her?
The door is cracked a bit ajar, I open, then gaze in,
the place is black as night and has an odor strong as sin.
The flashlight that I brought along is dead as dead can be,
I pull the lighter from my jeans and flick so I can see.
Suddenly that hooting owl, the one I'd seen before here,
lets out a hoot so loud and clear it knocks me on my rear.
I run outside and see the fog has lifted, moon's now bright,
should I leave or should I go, this is my pitiful plight.
My inner voice says go back in there's something you should see,
I light that lighter up again and whisper: Woe is me!
The shack they lived in has two rooms, a front one and a back,
as I approach the bedroom door I feel my nerves attack.
Hands a'shake I turn the knob and stand there white as snow,
Mrs. M is lying dead on a small cot just below.
Now, what I tell the locals isn't what they wish to hear,
that a dear old woman perished and nobody needs to fear.
That house upon the hill was razed, the land was sold in parts,
but...
the Menlough legacy lives on, at least in this young heart.
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