The Skeptic, Page 1 Of 3 Poem by John Bliven Morin

I came to study spirits,
Though a skeptic was I then;
I laughed and joked about the place
As I arrived at ten.

I set up my equipment
In the “haunted house, ” whose hosts
Seemed genuinely to believe
The place was full of ghosts.

I chuckled, placing cameras
Strategically just so;
Motion detectors and other things
Recording high or low.

I thought that every tale of ghosts
Was just for scary jokes,
For every haunted house before
Turned out to be a hoax.

I was not apprehensive
As I bid my hosts good day;
I heard the door lock as they left,
I heard them speed away.

I settled in an armchair,
Quite comfortably, indeed;
Picked up the evening paper
For something new to read.

I sat there several hours,
Till I heard a bit of static;
A monitor was flashing,
Something moving in the attic!

I grabbed my videocamera,
And dashed up flights of stairs;
The crack beneath the attic door
Was flickering like flares.

I snatched the door wide open,
But all was dark again;
I held my light above me
To see, but t’was in vain.

The room was full of boxes,
Old furniture and such,
But nothing there unusual
For me to see or touch.