Old Ghosts

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

The god damn Old Ghosts are all riled up again. It seems to take less and less these days. Last night I found myself walking down a dark hallway, stumbling from dimly lit doorway to dimly lit doorway never quite being able to find the exit I only hoped I was looking for. I was tired and lost and ready to give up when I fell through a door into a room, and could not find my way back out again.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly —
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their
Condor wings Invisible Wo!

There was in this room a woman. A young and beautiful woman who seemed to be engaged in a convivial conversation with a small group of people whom I could not see. She acted in a manner which told me that either she was not where she thought she was or I was not where I should be. I could not hear what she was saying, could not see who she was saying it to, and for a moment could not think of why I cared either way.

That motley drama! — oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased forever more,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness and more of Sin
And Horror the soul of the plot.

And then from the corners of the darkness from a place far more distant then the room would seem to hold, I heard a noise. A glass breaking. And with that noise opened an entire world, I could hear conversations from invisible party goers, the hustle and bustle of waiters moving back and forth among the crowd. A band played quietly...and I could hear the woman's voice. She was talking about me.

But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!

It writhes! — it writhes! — with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

I moved closer, she was talking about me, telling her friends who I could not see that I was on my way. Who was she? How did she know me? I was only a few steps away when she suddenly stopped talking. She looked off to the side and I knew someone I couldn't see was telling her something. Her face fell, the smile gone, and as her lip quivered she whispered, "He's gone?" And with tears in her eyes she turned away. We were pressed up against each other, I could feel the warmth of her breath on my face. "He's gone," she repeated and stared right through me. I heard a door open behind me and I turned to look. When I turned back she was gone. It was my turn to feel sad. I made my way towards that open door, and stepped out into the cold dark world knowing that they were waiting for me. Knowing there was more to be done.

Out — out are the lights — out all!
And over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

- From Edgar Allen Poe's Ligeia