Infrared

He records in the dark, with cameras; infrared

Whispering his name; the name of the dead

And he calls 'If you are there, show me a sign'

The response in the distance, a grandfather's chime

A sharp intake of breath from him and his buddies

Positive murmurings, some gen for his studies

Fixed to the spot, they await, the ghost hunting corps

Seconds pass by, then there's a creak from a door

There's gasping and joy and they're close to high-fives

For some it's close to the best night of their lives

'Did you get them' he asks 'the chime and the creak?'

Unseen a thumbs up in the murky mystique

They hunt their ignorance into the deepest bowels

Absurd night vision goggles on faces with scowls

As the air ripples with a devilish draught

Wafted from nowhere, conjured by witchcraft

But he's a professional who can talk to the dead

Recording and filming when others have fled

He's the ghost whisperer and he's on the hunt

Asking his questions, straightforward and blunt

'If you were the lord of the manor, make yourself known'

He quietly implores in a solicitous tone

And they stand there in silence; stock-still

Waiting for a sign, all knowing the drill

Only the pounding of heartbeats, nothing else stirs

So he whispers instructions 'We'll split into pairs'

Six into three wander from ground floor to attic

All soaked in the cold sweat of the psychosomatic

He's usually calm and collected, he thinks he's "the fella"

But now he's nervously descending the stairs to the cellar

The warmth of the air is repugnantly cloying

And backtracking is an option with which he is toying

He calls back to his buddy 'Switch on the light'

Click, click, click; still only night vision sight

Isolating the fear is a technique he employs

But now he's becalmed and losing his poise

He's the ghosts whisperer with a reputation to keep

So he carries on down on his ponderous feet

"An expert in his field", he thinks he's a maven

But now he is here; here in my haven

I was the butler, not the lord of the manor

Who I gratuitously killed with a sledgehammer

The fire that I set was impossible to douse

And in the conflagration we burned in his house

Now this "specialist boffin" can see me in his night vision goggles

He's soiled himself and his knees have got the wobbles

He came here to find and wasn't coerced

But in my paraffin embrace into flames he has burst

And I hold him close, so he'll have no chance to dash

Until his screams abate and he is naught but ash

So heed this warning; beware of where you tread

For only the dreadful dead inhabit the infrared