The Skeptic, Page 2 Of 3 Poem by John Bliven Morin

As carefully I searched the room,
Something distant crashed;
It seemed to come from down below,
So down the stairs I dashed.

Scattered about the smoking room,
My smashed equipment lay;
Steel tripods bent and twisted,
In tangled disarray.

Broken cords were sparking,
Too near to antique rugs;
Had no choice but to go about
And pull the electric plugs.

Then I began to shudder;
The thought ran through my brain,
What could twist the steel that way?
And will it come again?

Yet there was anger in me still;
My financial loss was great;
I removed my pistol from my coat
And went to meet my fate.

The cellar door was open, though
It had been closed before;
I flashed my light upon the stairs,
And passed on through the door.

And as I stepped upon the stairs,
Descending through the gloom,
The cellar door shut with a bang
And locked me in the room.

Startled, I dropped my light and gun,
Fell down the cellar stairs,
And in the flickering of my light,
It saw it standing there.

I cannot tell you, faint of heart,
What met me in that pit;
It was the thing of nightmares
And I will not speak of it.