THE CURSE

 

 

By Jean Bush

 

At the sound of the knock, he opened the door,

And there on the porch stood his friend LeBours.

“I came at your call as fast as I dare.”

“You’re here at last, that’s all I care.”

 

He paused to clear this throat and said:

“I think tonight I shall be dead.”

“I think what you need to clear your mind

Is a smoke and a drink of your finest wine.”

 

With that, his friend stepped through the door,

And what could he do but follow LeBours.

“The curse of my family is burned in the wall.

Read it, please, it will tell you all.”

 

“It’s really quite a simple verse.”

They slid back the panel and read the curse:

 

 

An ancient crime that reeks with mettle.

An ancient score too late to settle.

A friend had helped the life that flew

So now who dies is one and two.

 

“The point, I fear, I cannot see….”

“It means there’s death for you and me!”

“I asked you here so we can fight

And keep a watch throughout the night.”

 

“Dear Mac,” said Le Bours, “I’m not afraid of your ghost.

Bring us a drink and we’ll have a toast.”

So saying, he settled himself in a chair

And watched the shadows that gathered there.

 

Mac backed slowly from the room

And disappeared in the musty gloom.

He carried the drinks back through the door

And couldn’t believe what he saw on the floor:

 

He downed a drink to clear his head for across the room, LeBours lay dead.

The tray of drinks crashed to the floor, Mac was needed in his role no more.

Now the room lay still and dim

For late last night, it had gotten him.