The Haunted Typewriter

Author’s Note:

This poem is inspired by A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, whose timeless tale of ghostly redemption continues to illuminate my path from suffering to healing.

In the hush of night, the keys await,

My trembling hands, my shifting fate.

The typewriter stares with iron eyes,

As shadows stir and spirits rise.

I try to write of love and grace,

But horror floods the empty space.

Each letter typed, a haunted cry—

Each sentence ends with Why? Why? Why?

Then comes a knock, so soft, so slow,

A ghost steps in with eyes of woe.

Bent and brittle, dressed in gray,

She bows her head and starts to say:

“Paulette, I am your Past, you see—

The frequent falls, the restless sleep,

The weight of limbs that would not bend,

The silent pain that would not end.

"But in your suffering, seeds were sown,

Of strength you never knew you owned.”

I nod, and tears begin to fall,

But still I write, despite it all.

The second ghost, with trembling grace,

Appears with kindness on her face.

She takes my hand, so gently now, And whispers truths that show me how:

“I am your Present, here and near,

I know your tremors, feel your fear.

But every shake, each crooked line,

Is proof your spirit still can shine.

"You healed the sick when you were young,

Now heal with words, as Life demands.”

I breathe her in, her warmth, her light,

And press the keys with quiet might.

Then laughter rings, a child appears,

With eyes that sparkle, free of tears.

She twirls around my writing chair,

And fills the room with scented air.

“I’m your Future, bright and bold,

A tale of healing yet untold.

A cure may come, a gentler day,

When pain and fear are swept away.

"But even now, your words can be

The balm for souls who seek to see.”

I smile, my fingers find their pace,

The ghosts lean in, a soft embrace.

Then silence falls, and from the gloom,

A final ghost fills the room.

No face, no form, just glowing light,

A presence deep, serene, and right.

It hovers close, then softly speaks,

Its voice like wind through mountain peaks:

“Paulette, I am your Soul, your flame,

Beyond the tremor, beyond the name.

"I am the breath behind your art,

The quiet strength within your heart.

You’ve walked through deep, dark nights,

But still you shine with gentle light.

"You are the peace that pain can’t steal,

The healer who helps others heal.

You are Pau-lette, for Peace and Light—

A voice of truth, fierce and bright.

"Your stories mend what time has torn—

You are the dawn, reborn, reformed.”

The ghost then fades, but leaves behind

A warmth that lingers in my mind.

I press the keys, my story flows,

From haunted roots, a garden grows.

And though the spirits come and go,

Like Dickens’ ghosts from long ago,

I’ve learned to let their wisdom show.

For in my words, the world can see—

The strength, the soul, the mystery.

The healing power that lives in me.