I Think She Saw Ghosts

After eight weeks recovery,

On our quiet way home,

In the back of the car,

Looking out past the road,

Through the tall grass and mist,

In between the tall trees,

And somehow, through her bandages,

Wrapped from her nose past her knees.

There were bolts in her legs,

Stitches criss-crossed her cheeks,

Her left eye was still bloodshot,

And she still could not speak.

They had kicked through her rib bones,

They had sliced out her throat.

And as we drove silently,

Out beyond there,

I think she saw ghosts.

A bell there on her nightstand,

Her door to never be shut.

Our ears always open,

Good practice made to live hushed.

But still, late at night,

Though we knew she could not,

Through her door, down the hallway,

Tying my stomach in knots,

With a mumble and giggle,

In a voice not her own,

I could swear I heard whispers.

And there in our home

I think she saw ghosts.

It would hurt her to move,

It would pain her to breathe,

She would whimper in agony,

And it crushed me to see,

That my child was hurting.

I would stay up most nights,

This would never have happened,

If I’d kept her close by.

Guilt was then and still is,

Like a dark, haunting thing.

And it eats at my insides,

It festers and seethes,

It fills me with hatred,

And it fills me with rage,

And she coughs and screams hoarsely,

Three weeks home. Little change.

She wakes up in cold sweats,

Shakes so hard floorboards moan.

I bend closely beside her,

Her skin—clammy pale like sea foam, and

I think she saw ghosts.

They’re still out there, those monsters,

The ones who did this to her.

And I’m told there’ll be justice,

Yet we’ve heard not a word.

She’s living in pain,

And she’s living in fear,

And though her body is healing,

The bell she keeps near.

Because she still cannot talk,

Her throat damaged and weak.

But at night, still I hear,

Someone, something, speak.

Dead of night, doors creak closed,

And reflections in glass

Of the windows in hallways

That no-one has passed.

She can write now, in pencil

On a pad we supplied,

And she scratches out words like,

They all stand just outside,

And, I can’t sleep when they talk,

They’ll go on through the night,

And she scribbles and shivers

With undeniable fright.

And she claims to see children,

And she says she sees men,

And she tells us they’re with her,

That they’re pale as the dead, and

I think she saw ghosts.

As a girl she was different,

From the others her age.

She’d sit off by herself while

The other kids played.

She’d be found in the bathroom,

She had pads filled with notes.

They were drawings and letters,

To mysterious folks.

Never real, all made up.

She would conjure and spin,

Tales of friends in the shadows.

Now they’re all back again.

But they’re not here to play,

She writes as she cries,

They say they’re all waiting,

That they’ll all watch me die.

So we packed up and went,

Never looked back again.

We left rushed, we left quickly,

Before all her strength was regained.

Because it wasn’t just her now,

And at night I would see,

A tall and gaunt figure

Out in the hall stare at me.

It was quiet and pale,

It would sway back and forth,

And each night I would see it,

It would point towards her door.

And it never did smile,

And it never did speak,

But it scared me so deeply,

I’d go frozen and weak.

So we drive now and quickly

Far away from that place,

Of the memories too painful,

And far too deep to erase.

We go though not easy,

Cut the thing from its host,

And I hope that we’ve left it,

Because

I think we saw ghosts.