“September’s Eve (The Ghost’s Warning)”
Inspired by a foggy September’s Eve (and “There’s a Ghost” by Fleurie on repeat), here’s the eerie story of a girl haunted for losing something on her journey to adulthood.
She might look very familiar by the end…
Give the song a listen, and dive into this story fit for heartbeats under floorboards and blackbirds over doors.
“September’s Eve (The Ghost’s Warning)”
by Bethany E. Kolb
Ghosts appeal to me in the mist.
On days like this September’s eve,
To my sanity she cleaves.
Don’t you see her by the wood?
The little girl up to no good -
Her messy hair in haloed frizz,
Dress wrinkled like one dismissed.
She emerges long enough to wave,
Blindness to her deemed unbrave.
Her hair curls just like mine -
Perhaps that’s why I choose to trust
Her eyes that for my focus lust.
She warns of a plot against my life -
Not by mortal blades or knife.
“Many, many, many are they,”
She heralds me in fearstruck fray,
“That would keep you complacent -
Happy with this life-adjacent.”
“Who?” I ask, but she flees,
All the more distressed than me.
My rattled mind could not define.
Who’s to gain from my misdeed
Of living my own life as I please?
Perhaps silver-lined pockets
And wire-framed eye sockets,
Their names all unknown to me,
But something else the ghost sees.
Don’t they hear her by the river?
Air so cold you would shiver,
But ne’er does she, this girl in me,
Who writhes and flees but is never free.
Another day of autumn feast
With people who don’t know me;
Yet, she’s always there, beckoning.
Don’t they see her in the corner?
Grief and candlelight adorn her -
Ghost of who we used to be,
Forlorn for calling life as it seems.
“We are sick,” she cries in slow motion.
“Sick and drinking the devil’s potion.”
Dear heaven, she was frightening
But only once more visited me.
On that last day of August’s grave,
I demanded to know who sent her.
“Proof of conspiracy, or better!”
“You’re funny,” she said without a smile,
Naming me “Ms. Miss-it-all-the-while.”
“Tell me who threatens my life!”
I screamed in tone bleeding with strife.
Her eyes veiled over with failure and grief,
“You’re just like them,” through gritted teeth
She cried. “Never, nevermore will I
Beckon those who crave to die.”
She faded before I caught her name.
Into the mist, September came.
Evermore, the ghost haunted me.
Don’t they see her in their minds?
For I do, all the time.
Until, of course, I did no more.
Imagining her became such a bore.
Yet, she never quite relinquished -
My adult trust fore’er extinguished.
“Why,” I often blindly wondered,
“Do I envision distrustful mentors
And scoff at friends who bid me well?”
Only, then, could time’s passing tell
What the ghost bid me all along -
That something has gone terribly wrong.
But no more did she torment me,
And no more did I indulge in fantasy;
So much so that her prophecy fulfilled -
Blood of the imagineer that autumn spilled.