A Weekend at a Haunted Writers Retreat

 

Sèphera Girón

The journey ends and yet begins at the top of this precarious mountain

Tucked into the cliff, nestled into the trees, another sprawling home perched in the hills.

It’s an honour, a privilege, a retreat

Crossing the threshold, between worlds, between countries, between muses

To enter a vault, a sacred space buzzing with snatches of thoughts, of whirring insects,

A curious kingdom of creativity and reverence, of a heart-shaped lawn

Stone benches, an altar, a meditation table, an area where energy work

Is magnified under the comforting cusp of branches and fluttering leaves

Where many eyes peek out from bark and hollows

Peering up from stagnant waters, from mud and stone sculptures

Silently watching subtle vibrations echo, valleys and hills, pathways and ditches,

Leaking sap dripping, birds snatching bugs drawn to sweet center

Nectar of life pulsing in every tree and flower, the salamanders and bees

Hopping from stone to tree, crowning the totem with solemn reverence

A wall of sweat, heat, pungent weeds and feral cats

Omnipotent senses scented and sent on journeys

Winding through the hallways, hidden servant stairs and bathroom stalls

Pockets of rooms nesting more rooms, jutting balconies adorned with flowers

Jumbled nests in the corners of the windows

Wafting aromas of cigar smoke or cinnamon, passing through the empty hallways

Where sheets are rumpled by unseen hands.

Flitting shadows from the corners of my eyes

Slinking, flickering, oozing, dashing, flapping

How can I explain where the whispers hide

When the corners are darkened

When the moon is suddenly blocked by thick black fog?

A mass rolling through the room, leaking from wall to wall,

A jumble of thick sweat and trembling touches

A darkness invasive, intruding yet dissipating into emptiness

The air thick and musty, smells of decades gone by

When a sudden gust of chilly wind

Hairs on end, neck shivers, spine stiffens

Tripping through the giant stone fireplaces, hanging pots and pans

Swinging and clanging, burning and turning, heat orange and temptation stirs

Cats rats traps

Kicking up dust in the sunlit window, black widows spinning webs

Silky gossamer threads reaching across the doorframe

Tucked up in the corners, reflecting from the windowpanes

Shiny black bodies lying in wait for the next movement

Who will become tangled in the web?

Who is the next meal for the hungry?

Who is the next unwary guest?

The next click on the recorder

The next blip on the meter

Flashing lights and trembling fingers

Asking questions to chilly and reluctant air

Teasing and tormenting

Exhalations providing cold comfort in the heat of a fall afternoon

While crows flock to the tippy top of trees bending

Screaming their fury, agitated by the strangers

Screaming their messages

Screaming their frustration that no one listens.

Photographs of black-and-white histories line the walls

Bookcases glimpses of the past, faces echoed in the hallways

Up darkened stairs and through mirrored passageways, so many cupboards and drawers to hide

The most peculiar of treasures, the words and tissues, the dried flowers and broken hearts

Of money won and spent and reclaimed, but what is money when there’s no health?

What is love when the ones you love are dead?

Or, at least, dead to you?

Who are the children who play in the attic, who throw balls and whisper secret dreams?

Who toys with the flashlights, blinking, glimmering, fading and sparking and bursting into brilliance,

Only to dissipate as quickly as the lightning bug flits across the room?

Little transparent boys sneak around in the night, holding chubby fingers to explosive giggles,

Whispering curiosities into sleeping ears

Passing through the walls and slipping through time, a parallel world entwining for a moment

A window in the shadows of another way, another pass

Then the portal slips shut once more.

Confusing paradoxical energies entomb the words you struggle to pin down on paper

Yearning to confront the past while weaving pages for the future

Goodbyes are whispered and understood.

The door closes and you may have left or you may have stayed.

Your mind filled with the images of joy and despair, tested fear and confronted angers.

Blood rushing through your veins reminds you that you are still alive

With many more stories to tell.