Dusk shrouds foggy walks
Whispers heard when no one talks
The old town hall shines felicity
Its library shares the pageantry
Main Street bristles with conspicuous zeal
Spirits roam unseen when unreal
Tales abound of young maidens kissed
Faces unknown for souls unmissed
Yarns be spun of their tiny cove
Time surrounds, the mind does rove
Behind every door lie stories untold
Life in a village three hundred years old
High on the hill sits a Queen Anne alone
She’s peaks of copper and footing of stone
Her windows boarded to hide the view
Abandoned by the town, seen by few
The home once a school for wayward boys
Most had no families, none knew of toys
A cagey couple was completely in charge
Both small in stature yet looming large
The mistress taught letters with pointer or switch
The master kept numbers making them rich
Gruel’s fed to the students, the master’s meat
The boys froze; the pair warmed by their heat
Ablaze was the furnace ahead of each storm
The lads safely locked in their cold attic dorm.
Their sniffles and sneezes all kept at bay
The masters swept all the sickness away
Each year had runaways, never to be found
Searches end at the edge of school ground
Then came a young man sheltered in error
He promptly escaped and reported the terror
Inquires made, investigations were had
The masters left freely, the mayor glad
The school was closed with little fanfare
The boys sent away with little a care
Rumors lost from days long past
Horrors are hidden all too fast
No more’s said of the young boys plight
And another sun sets on a sleepy town’s night
I heard a story when I was away.
It happened last year on New Year’s Day.
A man and his wife went out for a walk.
The beach was deserted, they had a talk.
No one knew what the two spoke about.
But it didn’t take long for them to shout.
The women ran back and checked out in haste.
The man was gone, his existence erased.
The spa was closed and the police had a look.
A comb was found with a watch and a book.
The detective knew that everything’s a clue,
later that day they found a lone shoe.
The sun soon setting, the search had to wait.
The police returned the next day before eight.
Records were checked and fingerprints taken.
Nothing was found but the detective unshaken.
Seems the couple paid everything in cash.
The deputy examined all of the trash.
The book, he exclaimed, the best clue they had.
There was also the shoe but that smelled bad.
The watch looked expensive but not all that nice.
The comb was filthy and covered with lice.
The detective re-examined all of the clues.
The phone then rang, he hoped for good news.
A body washed up on the beach overnight.
By the look of his face he lost a good fight.
The detective, excited, rushed to his car.
He arrived in minutes, it wasn’t that far.
Although disappointed when he finally got there.
The man had a watch but he had no hair.
One thing’s for certain, he was missing a shoe.
It was a little too late but now he had two.
Now two crimes to solve and surely related,
there’d be no rest until the criminal’s located.
Days soon passed but nothing new discovered.
A report then arrived saying the victim was smothered.
The man was attacked but surely not robbed.
The deputy was called and confessed while he sobbed.
The woman in question was the deputy’s wife.
The dead guy, her lover, had come with a knife.
The deputy, of course, had worn a disguise.
But tans are evident in those warm, sunny skies.
His wife’s still missing but his watch returned,
it covered the place on his arm not burned.
The book and the comb, both common beach finds,
returned to the spa and their curious minds.
Apparently I read it but the plot was old.
The next day I heard a more chilling story told.
Tomorrows’ begun when I woke today,
predictability will be the way.
Tomorrows bring the magic of mystery,
predictable still is you and me.