a haunting

Hardly anyone believes me when I tell them
I’ve seen ghosts on the banks of the river.
They dwell just beyond the half-hearted reaches
and pensive fingertips of my dim headlights,
and in the corners of my eyes.
I used to write off the ineffable as coincidence,
when the stars would disappear
and the street lamps suddenly turned off—
as though they were snuffed out—
or when the car radio would dial into haywired
frequencies that did not exist.

I have seen shadows darting between the worn
headstones of soldiers from the civil war
that embroider the river road;
they sometimes coalesce at the crests
of the Indian burial mounds.
I have counted the weathered crosses
marking accidental drownings,
and I have, on more than one occasion,
noted my headlights reflecting off of
hundreds of glistening shards
of broken glass from fatal automobile accidents,
and the iced road is just so beautiful
I momentarily forget
the scene is supposed to be tragic.

I used to consider these fleeting apparitions precocious
and light-hearted reminders of the transience of life,
and I was humbled, and thankful.
Until one night, I saw tall, delicate figures,
standing stagnant; gaunt and gauzy,
wrapped in reams of drapery
darker than the seas at night.
Some pointing out to the river,
others, merely watching.
Although their faces were masked by the depths of their hoods,
I knew, with every fiber of my being, that they saw me.
With gazes stronger than the molding oranges in my kitchen,
burning holes right through the countertop,
I was certain they could see into my soul.

I remembered six years back, seeing
a similar silhouette tightly clutching the banister
as it leaned over the railing of my staircase,
just staring at me.
I remembered my heart beating so hard it was painful.
I remembered looking again and seeing an empty hallway.
I remembered all the times I wanted to die and suddenly knew I was not ready.
When I told my mother, she questioned my sobriety;
I promised her I hadn’t dropped acid since I was sixteen.
“I’ve seen those damn things every single time I drive down that road,” I asserted.
“Some things in life just cannot be explained,” she offered,
“This is when we pray.”

Sure, we are so brave during the day,
armed with company and our faith,
and guarded by the sun.
But as the sun dips beneath the treetops
and the shadows begin to stretch across the land
I’m willing to bet that even if I paper-mached my car in bible pages
no amount of praying would save me from the night
or protect me from the dark.