The Myth Maker

He sat up under the gables

Over the second floor of the house,

And peered on out from his fables

Like he was playing cat and mouse,

The dirt was thick on the window pane

As he scribed his feather quill,

That scraped on the dusty parchment

With a sound like a whippoorwill.

 

The hood that covered his features

Fully encrusted there with dust,

Had hung in one of the niches

Under an archway, covered in rust,

He’d worn it over a hundred years

Since his face became a skull,

And frightened the little pantry maid

In the House of Nevergull.

 

His hands like a pair of talons, creaked

As he held the feather quill,

Scraped like the bones of felons, reaped

From the charnel house at Rhyl,

The servants knew him as Braxelrod

Or the Lady Mary’s Curse,

He kept the soul of her mother, sealed

Around his neck in a purse.

 

The Lady Mary in sickness lay

To pay for her mother’s sin,

He’d never allowed her out to play

Nor any her friends come in,

Her mother had died unshriven

For her dallying with McCloud,

One night, the hearse had been driven

Taking her mother, wrapped in a shroud.

 

Each time that Mary had tried to leave

She’d find that the door was barred,

While looking out through the windows

She could see monsters, there in the yard,

The monsters conjured by Braxelrod

From the demons deep in his soul,

Where love had turned to the festering

Of a hate, that had to be told.

 

He never moved from the gables

Where he scribbled his tales of woe,

His needs were few and were simple

And supplied by the maid below,

He’d send a note to the pantry maid

And he’d start the note with ‘Please;

If it’s not too much, I would like to sup

And I’m partial to cottage cheese.’

 

The house would creak to the rafters

While the servants shivered below,

They’d all draw straws in a silent pause

For the one that would have to go,

He’d never turn from his parchment

So they would leave it there on a plate,

‘Now you be wise, don’t look in his eyes

Or you might just see Hell’s Gate!’

 

The gardener brought in the poison

That he’d been using on the bees,

While the pantry maid and the Butler

Paid him to mix it with the cheese,

Then late on a grim and starlit night

They heard when he gasped, and fell,

And the demons out in the outer yard

Took off, on their way to Hell.

 

The House sits deep in a misty vale

Cut off from the world outside,

There isn’t a single story left

So the mist is thick, and wide,

But Mary opened the leather purse

When the Moon came out to see,

And laughed as she shook it out, and said,

Oh Mother, at last, you’re free!’

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Jack...]

Haunting and creepy. The black sheaths no longer wave, o'er the hot and dusty wind, for Braxelrod hath left this place, to never come again.

I like your style, the picture you paint in my mind, the imagination that pours from you. Thank you once again fro sharing this epic poetic tale.

[TPK Stories]

Great story.

[Dennis A. Clark]

You had me at "cottage cheese."

[A.r. Bazian]

...
A lingering darkness shrouds the stale scare of this piece!
i loved it... amazing!

[Valentine]

David, very darka nd dreary..but at least he gets his in the end and mother is finally free..where you come up with thewe ideas beats me..What kid of books do you read? Love Katihe

[Marie]

I thought this wouldn't have a happy ending--and it didn't for Braxelrod. Creepy, lovely tale.

[Enid Blake]

Oh this was extremely gothic - I love it. :)

[Siren]

I like this. Images come easily to mind--this dark myth maker under the shroud of a hood, hiding the skull of a face, yet scrawling away with skeletal hands. I think my favorite part is that he is partial to cottage cheese and is so polite. Great write, friend.

[quinfinn]

marvelous! i was expecting to find myself in the cellars of the house of usher. what an entertaining read!

[David Scott]

A fine trip into imagination!
Not a usual like for me, but I was grinning the whole time.
Thank you for this whimsical poem.