The Haunting

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All of my neck hair 
ascended like jets,
prickly with fear
in a theater known best
for haunting regrets.


Some monstrous banging
unspeakable rage,
up in the sound booth
just right of the stage.

With nobody there,
the theater was locked,
2:00 A.M. sharp
it read on the clock.

I scurried to flee,
But in front of me,
stood two photo cutouts
one life-size James Dean,
plus Marilyn Monroe
long dead, movie queen,
almost making me scream.

"Grease." was the play
they were innocent props,
that set my heart leaping,
and pounding nonstop.

I fumbled the key,
the banging renewed,
like feet chasing me.
I scrambled out free.

Leaving lights on,
Plus glue guns plugged in,
I had to escape,
from that frightening din.

I never went back
after dark, “only” days,
to finish that set,
till I got my work done
with fear driven skills,
before each setting sun.


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