Sarah Frances Moran

The Ghost At 229 Cooper Rd

I loved to stay up late as a teenager
surfing the new found vastness of the internet.
My mom would always complain I wasn’t sleeping enough
and it became a game to me to attempt to sit there,
typing as quietly as possible with all the lights off

I never got caught until that one night my bedroom door opened
and then closed again.
I remember swiveling around quickly.
Worrying over the scolding I knew I was about to receive.

But no one was there…

It was just me and the darkness
and the computer screen…

I never told anyone and I stopped staying up so late

Whoever joined me that night still walks around
creeping in that house in the darkness.
Keeping my Mom company.
Opening and closing doors at Midnight.

Kicking Up Dust 

We walked listening to the coo of owls

we couldn't see and craning our necks

to catch the shooting stars in our eyes.

Hand in hand until the flashlight fluttered and died.

Untangling our fingers I reached to bang it into my palm.

It came on

and you were gone.  

I swiveled around.  Whispered your name.

Saw nothing.

Ran the trail back to the campsite kicking up dust

in my wake.  

You weren't there.  

I remembered as I saw the truck where I'd left you last,

inside the confines of the Brazos Wood Cemetery,

at a gravesite marked "she died too soon."

You weren't ever here.  

But I could still feel the sweat of your palm inside mine

and as the flashlight failed for the second time

somewhere

your laughter pierced the darkness of those woods.  

Sarah Frances Moran resides in Waco, Texas with her partner and two chihuahuas. She fully believes in Chupacabras and Werewolves.  She is editor of Yellow Chair Review and prefers Dia De Los Muertos to Halloween.