the after hours

You were right to come to me. Somehow you've opened a deep dark portal like a Ouija Board is wont to do and there's no turning back. One minute morsel of misguided judgment burdens you with the weight of a ten ton cold anvil. Don't turn, here, now now, a handkerchief.

Ok, let me think, wait. Yes, I have a crowbar, it'll be the only passkey we'll need. A flashlight, yes. The morgue is no place for a girl. No more crying until we finish this. He will not visit you again if my idea pans out. It's just the wind outside, there's no one else here, the dog jumped because of a nightmare, she has them all the time. And she only barks when I play my scratchy old Oscar Peterson album. What a smile you have.

Take this lamp, yes, there's a small mirror in my room, next to the stuffed magpie, it's warped and scratched, so don't be frightened if Bela Lugosi is staring back at you, and if you care to you can wash your face at the old white basin. You'll find a flannel in the closet, over-sized yes, but good and warm, and a olive knit cap. We'll be wallowing in thawed mud, it'll be the least of our nightmare. Yes, it has to happen tonight so we can bury the ghost, no more nudging you awake in the night. Perhaps I should take a chainsaw. You look ridiculously cute in that cap, Miriam.

Yes, you can be my Watson, but this is dark business now. Sometimes the dead just need to be killed more than once I guess. Keep your chin up and do not blink, when we go in you can not exhibit fear. If we get separated, meet me under the covered willow stone bridge. What are you, seven stone? Ghosts don't even weigh one kilo, Love.



another magpie tale