The Book on the Topmost Shelf

My uncle lived in a big old house

At the end of Mayfair Drive,

With thirteen rooms and a library,

Whilst he was still alive.

But he jumped one day from the second floor

And he hit the ground so hard

That his blood spread out like a pair of horns,

There in his own front yard.

 

We didn’t know why he had to jump,

It wasn’t a lack of cash,

His health was good, but before he jumped

He’d broken out in a rash,

The maid had brought him his morning tea

Had watched him put back a book,

Up on the topmost shelf it went

And he’d said to her, ‘Don’t look!’

 

The rash spread quickly under his arms

With pustules down in the groin,

The doctor said at the autopsy

That one was shaped like a coin.

‘You’d swear that there was a devil’s head

Imprinted there in his blood,

I’ve never seen anything like it since

And I hope that I never should.’

 

But my father moved us into the house

Now, with his brother gone,

He locked us out of the library

But went in there on his own.

There were shelves and shelves of books in there

And one on the topmost shelf,

The maid had whispered, ‘You’d best beware!’

But he took it down himself.

 

I noticed he wore his patent gloves

Whenever he went in there,

I peeped in through a crack in the door

And saw him stand on a chair,

The book was old, had a mouldy look

For the leather was turning green,

It looked like a fungus, taken root,

And the whole thing looked unclean.

 

As days went by I began to hear

Some babble behind the door,

And incense came in a steady stream

Out from a crack by the floor,

My father didn’t come out for meals

His voice was becoming hoarse,

He’d take a tray at about midday

But never a second course.

 

The maid resigned on the first of June

She said that she saw his face,

Was shivering uncontrollably

And muttering, ‘Loss of grace!’

The cook took both of us under her wing

And swore that she’d see us fed,

But wouldn’t come out of her tiny room

At dusk, she’d ‘rather be dead!’

 

The fire broke out in the library

On a Sunday, after Mass,

I caught a glimpse of my father then,

His face was as green as grass,

The shelves and the books had grown a mould

And it spread all over the floor,

I knew I had to get out of there

And ran right out of the door.

 

My father leapt from the window then

Came crashing down in the drive,

I knew before I got close to him

He couldn’t have been alive.

Two horns spread out from the place his head

Had crumpled into the ground,

But these were horns of a green fungi

Like the book on the shelf he’d found.

 

They quarantined us around that house

And came with chemical sprays,

‘This fungus seems to be hard to kill,

It’s going to take us days!’

They checked the wreck of the library,

I even went in myself,

With everything burnt to a crisp, still lay

A book on the topmost shelf!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Marie]

Obviously an evil book. This situation calls for exorcism; perhaps holy water could destroy the book.
This reminded me in the beginning of a story about a man who was infected with leprosy from the pages of a book... horrible story; I've never been able to get it out of my mind.

[TPK Stories]

What a tale of evil...a delightful read...

[Claire in VA]

Your imagination is unreal!
From where do all your stories come?
I love this. The rhythm and rhyme
are impeccable. The story itself
is great.

Your Fan,

Claire