My Poetry. Nancy Smith. (A ghostly tale)

Stumbling along the street one cursed night,
I encountered a chilling, unholy sight—
A lady suspended in an aura of cold, sickly light.
She looked impossibly real, yet subtly wrong.

I drifted towards her, my limbs stiff and shaking,
her charm was a cold terror, mesmerising and deep.
Was my own vision failing? Or was my mind truly faking?

Her dress was from a distant, forgotten past,
her hair was long, a drape of wet, midnight dark;
the pavement was illuminated by her unnatural glow,
as she drifted slowly towards the shadows of the park.

She walked along a deeply darkened path,
her spectral apparel whispering on the broken ground,
smiling a beautiful, vacant, timeless smile—
did she yearn to be found, or forever unbound?
I followed close behind, held fast by a psychic chain,
the moon's silver eye could not pierce the dark haze.
I tried to speak, to beg her to explain,
but could only stare, lost in a horrified daze.

Her bodice was stained a colour of dried, ancient blood,
barely clad, yet she felt no trace of the winter’s chill;
I wondered how she managed this impossible walk,
how this dreadful mystery would finally, terribly unfold.

Stunned by her silent, harrowing beauty,
I tracked her for desperate, blurring hours;
glancing away was impossible, futile,
she bound my will with her ghostly, cold powers.

At last, she paused, her ethereal form held still,
gazing at a crumbling, abandoned shack.
She was floating, impossibly magical,
leaving no earthly, physical track.
Eyes fixed on the structure, the tears she wept were not wet;
she pointed a pale finger at a rotting inscription,
her face contorted in a look of sudden, shocked regret.

Drawn by her silent, hypnotic trance,
I saw the blackened, obscure words on the door;
her light was slowly, sickeningly fading now,
making the message impossible to read once more.

I fumbled for a match, striking it against the damp stone,
the message was faint, the meaning utterly unclear;
the writing was of scripture, of death and a reckoning,
how long had this forgotten torment waited here?

The name was carved: Nancy Smith.
She perished in a tragic, forgotten way,
in the year 1840, in this very place,
her life brutally stolen away.
She died in a cruel, quick fire, it was said,
no one in the village had offered to assist;
a human life was worth nothing to them then,
her desperate, final cries dismissed.

Knowing she desperately needed someone to help,
she walked the lonely streets every spectral night,
but until that moment, she was never granted her wish,
she could not find the eternal, final light.

I whispered a prayer for Nancy, a plea for her peace,
to allow her anguished soul to finally rest;
then, with a desperate flick, I burned the remaining shell,
feeling in my heart that it was truly for the best.

Three terrible nights later, I forced myself to return,
fresh flowers now covered the haunted spot.
Nancy's soul was finally released and calmed.
Since that night, the yellow, unholy glow has been forgot.