Back to Issue 11

T. J. McGuire

When the Realtor Forgets to Mention
that the House You Just Bought is Haunted,
the Property Details Should Read:

​sprawling three-bedroom ranch built in 1970,
site of single-family homicide, 3000 square feet
of hot spots, cold spots, doors slamming
by themselves, bed shakes, whispers,
hair getting pulled, breathing on the back of the neck,
laughter, weeping, odd smells, shouts,
sad voices singing about the unexplained hostility
toward you and your family.
 
Old blood-stained shag where husband was murdered
with an ax, has been replaced with lovely bamboo
flooring in main living area. In the backyard,
where the remains of previous owner were exhumed
from shallow pit, now sits gorgeous gazebo
perfect for outdoor weddings.
 
Ivy-covered pergola over flagstone patio
(where body of wife was discovered)
is great for entertaining. Flickering landscape lights
can make paranormal activity seem fun!
 
[Note: watching The Wizard of Oz before bedtime
can help ease insomnia and panic-induced nightmares.]
 
In no time, footsteps in the ceiling will belong
to a footloose farm girl from Tornado Alley.
Helps to imagine Dorothy in blue checkered dress
skipping on the roof in ruby slippers.
 
When counting sheep no longer works,
you can imagine running through a field of poppies
to help you fall asleep. As for black-hooded figure
that sweeps through the master and knocks over the lamp:
it’s only the Scarecrow’s clumsy ass trying to stand
for the first time without the aid of a wooden post.
 
How fun would it be to open your eyes
and have the Scarecrow smiling over you in the dark?
 
Yet the scratching in the tub is only Toto.
 
The faraway screams from inside the vents?
Turns out to be a trio of young girls singing
who represent the Lullaby League.
 
Would it shock you to find legs jutting
from beneath your house in stockings with black
and white stripes? Would it really help matters
to know that your quaint, one-story ranch
is popping a squat on the bones of a dead witch?
 
Surrounded by an field of bad energy, this home,
which, there is no place like, is a magnet to evil spirits.
 
They flock to it like flying monkeys.
 
Fear is measured by the affects they have on residents.
If the strength of a magnet acts upon its opposite
with the force of one dyne, this house
attracts darkness with the force of one dying.
It is drawn to it as if made of metal.
 
Don’t be surprised tonight if you wake up with a scream
lodged in your throat like a yellow brick.
It’s only the Tin Man, standing over your bed
with his ax raised high above his head,
 
searching for a heart.
 

Just Cry Wolf (When You Want to Scare Us)

​When Death points the camera at us,
all we can do to keep it together is to say cheese
without smiling and wait for the flash.
 
The Hawaiian text alert says:
The wolf is coming. Not a drill.
 
Ben and I are on the phone with our parents.
He’s calm about it, unlike me.
Only his voice is a string on a ukulele
that breaks mid-song
because the tension is too high.
Megan is a starfish. 
She suctions onto me as I race around the house
looking for pillows and blankets and food
and water and what good will
any of these objects do?
Baby Liv is screaming. I cradle her
in one arm wondering who’s going to cradle me?
What I need from the missile
that is arcing south over the Pacific
toward the islands, is to miss the islands.
 
Megan wants to know
will it always be Christmas if we die
since the tree is still up?
 
I hand her a snow globe
and tell her that if she pretends to be
the woman inside, she can skate
sideways figure-eights around the wolf.
 
She cranks the metal key
on the globe, so that its tinkling,
music-box melody 
can be the last song we hear.

T. J. McGuire is the author of Mid-life Chrysler (Kelsay Books, 2017) His work has been anthologized in the Ohio Poetry Association's journal, Common Threads, and in the Antioch Writers' Workshop's journal, The AWW Collection. He has also had other works featured in Red Fez, Flights, Slippery Elm and Mock Turtle Zine. He currently hails from Dayton, Ohio. 

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