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An Old House

by Cristel Hastings

published in WEIRD TALES, November 1927

Bathed in mystery and moonlight,

Wistfully it stands

At the end of a lonely, winding road

Where cobwebs hang in strands

Of dusty lace an old ghost hung

Before a sagging door

And winds go moaning through the rooms

With fog from down the moor.

Never a light—nor sound, nor laugh—

Never a footfall—wait!

What was that?—did I hear a step

Down by the creaking gate?

Echoes resounding in empty halls—

Shadows that spring like cats—

Sudden drafts that seem like breaths,

And a fluttering of bats.

Eery tenants—ghosts of old—

Loves and griefs—and tears—

Underneath a leaking roof

Haunting mildewed years.

Straggling roses climb the porches

Hiding broken panes,

Though their roots be dry and fainting,

Waiting for the rains.

Bathed in silent, moonlit fragrance,

I hear the old ghosts talk—

Must be wind in that old maple

Down the lonely walk.

Bats, and broken, paneless windows—

Creaking shutters—weeds—

Loneliness and sobbing wind ghosts,

Wait for the friend it needs.