A Poem by Patrick Westfall –

• Sitting in my study,
  drawing upon a pipe of clay,
  Simply sitting, smoking softly
  I endure the remaining day.
• Harder still, fell the rain
  against the glassless pane.
  Louder still was heard the rapping,
  tapping of his cane.
• As I rose to bid him in
  I reeled at the sight,
  he was already there, beside my chair
  and he brought with him the night.
• “Sir,” said he respectfully,
  “if I may speak free,
  a scotch and smoke in trade for tale
  this night I’d share with thee.”
• His manner calm as he sat
  upon the moistened floor,
  and as he lit his pipe,
  I gazed out upon the moor.
• Not a word said he
  for at least an hour more,
  “Speak up my man, out with your tale,
  this I do implore!”
• But when he spoke aloud
  and ceased his muted way,
  his tale chilled both my bone and blood
  and stole my breath away.
• “Joseph Craig Dobler,
  employed me but a year,
  I took his life, and then his wife
  as my own to love so dear.
• But alas! She knows the truth at last,
  it is so she screams,
  Dobler’s ghost has come to her,
  he speaks into her dreams.
• His spirit shall haunt and spook,
  wherever I may be,
  already twice this night,
  upon the moor was he.
• Such is how I came
  into your house so free,
  for when next he comes I’ll surely die
  but with sin confessed to thee.”
• The wind did gust and blow
  through the glassless pane,
  and it seemed we both could hear
  the rapping, tapping of a cane.
• The man stood up as if to leave
  but could not find the nerve,
  and as he looked into the night,
  I watched his body swerve.
• Then we both grew chill as the knob
  into my dwelling turned,
  “What demon from Hell, had arisen,
  its body blackened, burned?”
• But the knob it stopped and then was heard
  upon the door so plain,
  louder, louder came the rapping,
  tapping of his cane.
• “No more! No more!”
  he cried with palms upturned.
  I could not bear to see its face
  and body blackened, burned!
• The man turned in horror and fell out
  through the glassless pane,
  nevermore to suffer the terrible
  tapping of the cane.
• Oh how I loathe, even now,
  the sound of rain upon the plain,
  for now I always seem to hear the rapping,
  tapping of a cane!