Gentle Reader, I don’t know what possessed me to let Post the Seventy-Sixth go live as the first post after promoting this blog. When I’m telling the story in person, it’s much funnier, and less terrifying. I do beg your pardon, and promise nothing but the very strictest of whimsy for this entire week. Therefore, please accept this bonus post in lieu of throwing myself on your mercy.
Gentle Reader, you will learn
That when the evening shadows turn
And nightly breezes splutter – whoosh! –
Out comes the fabled Shadow-douche.
In Steliacoom, after the bar
(Where sit young veterans of war)
With alcohol and karaoke,
Our evening felt a little hokey.
Abandoned building, on the hill
Where mental patient’s ghosts dwelt still?
And Midnight was not yet at hand?
Our night, at last, was fully planned.
Miles of sidewalk lay before,
So through the city night we tore
Until at last we’d reached the park:
The dead were waiting, in the dark.
A dozen times, a noise we heard,
Or a whispered silken word,
Our courage sputtered, ripped, came loose
In the face of Shadow-Douche.
The stone and rubble lay around
From when the Hospital burned down
We walked the outline, feeling brave,
In the massive unmarked grave.
A distant laughter, sudden wind-
Leaves blown away; a friendly grin.
No need to wonder foe or friend:
The Shadow-Douche was just pretend.
And then the laughter came again,
And no one knew from where, or when
That’s when we realized the truth:
We all, in fact, are Shadow-Douche.
I should state for the record that everything said above is completely true and accurate.