No Paint For This House
One spring day we painted our home.
It took a few days to get it done.
3 of us were working. I wasn’t alone.
It went fast so was sort of fun.
A pretty blue with dark blue trim.
We were all happy after the last coat.
The next day it was like it had never been.
No new paint from pillar to post.
It looked like we had never painted it.
What the hell happened to the paint?
I was so shocked, I could have a fit.
My wife felt weak, about to faint.
We called a ghost hunter for help.
He came over to take a look.
He knew exactly how we felt.
We showed him pictures that we took.
I looked at the ground where he knelt.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
He was as mystified as we were.
“Can I call a friend of mine? He knows lore.”
“Maybe he will know what did occur.”
We said yes, and soon he arrived.
We showed and told him all we knew.
He turned white and almost cried.
“I think I know what happened to you.”
He started to say, then fell to the ground.
He was dead, right on the spot.
The ambulance soon came around.
A heart attack or stroke were their thoughts.
That didn’t explain enough for us.
We saw the marks on his throat.
They disappeared before we could cuss.
Something made sure he couldn’t gloat.
We never tried to paint the house again.
We sold it, as is, just as fast as we could.
Never told the story. Didn’t know how to begin.
We knew the siding was wormwood.
What this meant, we weren’t sure.
We were glad to be away from there.
Why or how it did occur,
remains a mystery we haven’t wanted to share.
———————————R.W. Johnson—–(2017)