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 ghost 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