The Voice in the Upstairs Room

The house that I rented was falling down,

I picked up the place for a song,

There weren’t many rooms that were liveable,

The plumbing and wiring were wrong,

I lit up a paraffin lantern there

To lighten the dark and the gloom,

But while still exploring, I thought I heard

A voice in the upstairs room.

 

I hadn’t been up in the loft ‘til then,

I’d not even mounted the stairs,

The rooms were a midden of broken toys

Of lopsided tables and chairs,

I carted the worst of them out the back,

The fire that I set lit the gloom,

Again from a window above me there

Was the voice in the upstairs room.

 

I couldn’t make out a word that it said

It grumbled and mumbled and moaned,

I stood and I listened and scratched my head

And to tell you the truth, I groaned.

I didn’t know what lay above me there

A squatter, a thief or a ghost,

A thief didn’t matter, a squatter I’d scatter

What worried me most was a ghost.

 

I went and I stood by the bottom stair

Looked up, with a feeling of doom,

The voice was whispering somewhere there,

‘You’d better be leaving here soon!’

‘The only one leaving this place is you,

Whatever, whoever you are!’

‘The only way you will be rid of me

Is by putting the lid on the jar.’

 

I plucked up the courage and took the stairs,

Was running, but two at a time,

The dust was heavy and thick up there,

Whipped up as I started to climb,

A haze was suffused in the room at the back

Where the window was beaming in light,

And there at a ghostly harpsichord

Was sitting a woman in white.

 

I stood stock still as she started to play

Bach’s Little Prelude in C,

The notes hung quivering, shivering in

The haze of the air by me,

I saw right through the woman, the dress

And the harpsichord to the wall,

There was no substance that I could see,

No substance to them at all.

 

The music stopped, she was looking at me

And she let out a long, loud sigh,

‘I’ve only played for two hundred years

To some visitors, passing by.

It’s never the same as it was at court

With the crinolines, bustles and lace,

And most have fled when the music played,

Without ever seeing my face.’

 

I looked at the jar on the mantelpiece,

A Funeral Urn with its store,

And ash was spilling, leaving a trace

With the lid that lay on the floor,

I bent to touch it and pick it up

But the woman had let out a cry,

‘I pray sir, never replace the lid,

For then I would surely die.’

 

I placed the lid on the Funeral Urn,

Turned back to look at her face,

The room was empty, the harpsichord

Had gone, not leaving a trace.

There was no sign of the woman in white

And the haze had faded away,

I turned and slowly descended the stairs

With a feeling of vague dismay.

 

For weeks I scrubbed and I tended that house,

Installed all my goods and wares,

But often found I was listening for

The sound of that voice upstairs.

So I crept in there on a winter’s eve

And I slipped the lid off the jar,

Went silently down the stairs again

Still listening, from afar.

 

The harpsichord struck a strident note

And it woke me up in my chair,

Then suddenly she began to sing

In a voice that was sweet and fair.

I only cover the Funeral Urn

If the vicar is passing by,

But sometimes sit at the head of the stairs

Just to hear the woman sigh.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Cryingkate]

I find it neat that there are so many likenesses to my life in your writings.
I play the harpsichord too and sing much like the "lady at the head of the stairs"

I really Love your works, keep writing and someday you might grow up to be a professional writer :-)
ha ha ha..

[Lena M. P.]

A beautifully written tale. I truly believe that some people just never leave this side because they can't believe that anything better can be on the other plain. It is better to stay and be melancholy of all the pleasures missed than to be gone for good. And the man didn't want to live all alone in his thoughts. The loneliness was stifling in the silence. I really enjoyed reading this one. there were so many parallels in it.

[Marie]

what a lovely house to have--with its own ghost that he can bottle up anytime he wants to.

[Claire in VA]

What a wonderful story! As usual, I love the rhyme scheme and rhythm. I see no grammatical mistakes on which to comment. I just see an intriguing story. I like it, but I must admit that I never have particularly cared for urns, and now I really don't care for them! I never want one in my house, but to anyone who does, KEEP IT SEALED!
Brilliant write!!
~~Claire