“I know one which, overcome with a predominant humour, was
so troubled with a fanciful vain cogitation that no counsel or
company could withdraw him from it, figured a man with a
shadow projected before him, with this word, ‘It comes.’ ”
- William Camden (1551-1623), Remaines
Along the empty corridor
The ghostly footsteps follow you,
Your slippers slapping on the tiled floor.
Lest something come behind and swallow you
You turn and cry, “What’s there?”
Then dart around the corner making for
The safety of the stair.
The footsteps pause. Has nothing stirred
Except the thuddings of your heart?
“Come out, whoever you are!” you shout, unheard:
There’s only thrilling silence, and the start
That, pounding in your ears,
Prevents the utterance of any word
That might relieve your fears.
“It’s no one. Why am I afraid?”
You ask out loud, and “No one” echoes back.
Was it a voice, or inward thought, that made
Hairs tingle, muscles tremble, shrill tones crack?
“Only yourself,” it said.
Yet still the hollow footsteps have not stayed,
Stalking ponderous as lead.