In Loving Memory
Kurt Grant took his own life,
The grief was no pretence.
The family thus gathered,
For a night of remembrance.
They sat in solemn silence,
To mourn Kurt’s sorrowful fate.
In a room adorned with candles,
And Kurt Grant’s brand new portrait.
Old Mrs Grant, she wept,
Her frail frame frozen stiff.
Said her son was of sharp mind,
Yet, he jumped off of that cliff.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’
Said Kurt’s consort Fran
‘My husband’s sane mind,’
‘Was grieved by his old man.’
Kurt’s father lifted his eyes,
The stares razed him to the ground,
Ever since his son had died,
He hadn’t uttered a sound.
‘My brother liked to travel,’
Said Credence Grant out loud,
‘Father, would a nomadic son,’
‘Have made you any less proud?’
Tracy Grant, she laughed,
Said Credence was a thief.
Claimed he’d ransacked poor Kurt,
And caused him suicidal grief.
‘Tracy is no saintly angel,’
Claimed Kurt’s aunt Evangeline.
‘She blackmailed him for plain dosh,’
‘To fund her sinful morphine.’
‘We talk as if he was slain,’
Credence thus left his seat.
‘He took his forsaken life,’
‘It was his greatest defeat.’
‘Brother, don’t walk away,’
Fran gave out a grievous shout.
As Credence reached the door,
The lights in the room went out.
‘What’s happening?’ Tracy cried.
To move, not one did dare.
As the dreary darkness settled,
Credence’s cries filled the cold air.
A single candle lit,
The Grants, all froze in dread.
Once the shadows lifted,
They saw Credence’s severed head.
Mr Grant fell to his knees,
His eyes mirrored deathly white.
He stared at Kurt’s new portrait,
Not one pitied his plight.
‘Credence was a fiend,’
Tracy shook with contempt.
‘He drove Kurt down that cliff,’
‘His own fate, he did tempt.’
‘Silence,’ said Evangeline,
Her eyes pierced Tracy like shards.
‘Don’t tempt the devil further,’
‘Your life might be next on the cards.’
Fran held Old Mrs Grant tight,
Said their blaming ways must amend.
She wondered by who’s knife,
Did Credence’s life end.
‘Amongst us sits a killer,’
Old Mr Grant, he spoke.
‘Us vile, bickering fiends,’
‘Some devil’s rage did stoke.’
Just then, one gust of wind,
Made conversation drown.
In its brutish, airy strength,
The chandelier came crashing down.
Four Grants crept to the wreck,
As the wind finally ceased.
Beneath the mighty lantern,
Old Mrs Grant lay deceased.
Tracy let out a shriek,
Old Mr Grant froze still.
Evangeline and Fran,
Stared straight at the phantom kill.
‘Are we all doomed to death?’
Fran whispered, as fear surged.
‘Let’s all leave this room,’
Aunt Evangeline wept and urged.
The four walked to the door,
They found it locked up tight.
Trapped in that cursed house,
They resorted to swear and fight.
Amidst the frightful volley,
Tracy slammed into a wall.
A phantom blade impaled her,
Her death made all their skins crawl.
Old Mr Grant, he gasped,
His left arm flared in pain.
All the familial deaths,
Had poor Mr Grant slain.
Fran gave herself a hug,
Evangeline pulled her close.
She gave in to the aunt’s affections,
Then she stamped hard on her toes.
The old aunt staggered back,
As she saw through Fran’s disguise,
Before she could say a word,
Fran shot her between the eyes.
Smiling, Fran Grant walked,
Jubilance crowned her gait.
She lifted a tiny hand,
And stroked Kurt Grant’s portrait.
The door creaked open wide,
Fran walked out to calls of her name.
Where Kurt Grant’s portrait had hung,
There stood an empty frame.
By: Samiksha Deshpande
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