There’s an old house near the edge of the wood,
Its windows all cracked and darkened with age,
A pile of stone where a wishing well stood,
This was the home of old Thomas MacCrae.
Forgotten now, full of nothing but dreams,
It stood alone through the long empty years.
But things are not always just as they seem
And there are sounds in the night you should fear.
“Old Thomas was mad!” so most people said,
Driven to rage by a lover untrue.
Others would swear that he talked with the dead,
As he went out in the dark of the moon.
I went to the house to see what I could,
And just to laugh at the old tales of woe.
But while I pondered and restless there stood,
A young girl came up behind me and spoke!
Blue eyed and blond and in gingham and bows,
She watched me with eyes of overcast shade,
And then within me a strange fear arose,
“You are here to see old Thomas,” she said.
I just shook my head and tried hard to smile
As a shiver turned the summer day cold.
“I came by to look around for a while,”
“And to remember the tales I’ve been told.”
“He wasn’t a bad man,” she said with ire,
“Thomas hid from the world to hide his face.”
“He got burned pulling a child from a fire,”
“And after people would give him no grace.”
“He hid in these woods and died all alone,”
“Away from the stares and the prying eyes,”
“And all he wanted to do was go home,”
“But he never got the chance to,” she sighed.
“How do you know this?” I asked her and stared.
“Thomas was buried before you were born,”
“So how can you know the story you shared?”
I asked her and tried hard to hide my scorn.
She shook her head as she started to fade,
“You’re not like others, you see more than most,”
“But I wasn’t saved from the fire that day,”
“And Thomas isn’t alone as a ghost.”