On Baxter’s Hill
the wind bangs the door
of the ghost house
as Rachel and I
stand outside
staring into the lonely yard
where the dog chains
are rusting in the stinkweed
and every window pane is broken
and a piece of roofing iron
flaps like a wounded bird.
The gate creaks
as Rachel opens it
and steps through
reaching behind for my hand.
A crow lands on the chimney
and squawks,
as if to scare us away.
Rachel whispers,
‘Do you think Mr Baxter would mind?’
I hope his ghost
is as hard of hearing as he was.
The blade grass prickles my legs,
please don’t let there be snakes,
or spiders or rats.
We’re two steps away from the verandah
when the door opens
with the wind
and I can see
all the way down the hallway
to the kitchen
where one chair stands beside a table
waiting,
and Rachel says, ‘Alex’
as we reach the front door
and just as I’m about
to step into the house
the wind blows hard
and slams the door
like a hammer.
Rachel screams
or was it me?
We both turn and run
and don’t stop
until we reach the rock ledge
on the hill overlooking the ghost house,
the sweat on the back of my neck
chills my body
and Rachel says, ‘Alex’
and I answer, ‘Yes’
and she giggles nervously,
‘Can we not go inside, please?’
We both stare
at Mr Baxter’s house
and the door opens slowly
as if daring us to try once more
and I say to Rachel,
‘Okay, let’s not.’