In Memphis town, ‘neath skies of gray,
A mystery stirred one fateful day.
The year was nineteen eighty-two,
And whispers crept where silence grew.
Inside a church, so vast and wide,
Where halls and chapels lived inside,
Worked Headmaster Sam, a thoughtful man,
With desk and bowl, and admin plan.
But one late morn, in February’s chill,
His bowl was empty—nuts gone still.
“I filled it full just yesterday!
Who dared to steal my snacks away?”
He marched to where the pantry stayed,
Where shelves of food were once arrayed.
But now, the jars and goods were bare,
As if a ghost had dined in there.
The cook, still chopping, turned to say,
“This theft’s been happening day by day.
Snacks, then meats, and now a ham—
I locked the fridge, but here I am…
“I swore I left it sealed and tight,
Yet someone snuck inside last night.”
Sam frowned and knew this couldn’t last—
Some kid had surely gone too fast.
He planned to fix the fridge once more,
And warned the staff of food folklore.
But days went by and all seemed fine,
Until more snacks crossed over the line…
A note appeared on Sam’s own desk,
A scrawl in towel, bizarre, grotesque.
It spoke of murder—dark and wild—
Of Leslie, a poor missing child.
“She might be here,” the note implied,
“Check the attic,” it testified.
Sam, disturbed but feeling bound,
Alerted police to come around.
They searched above, both high and low,
But found no secrets hid below.
“No trace,” they said. “Just some bad joke.”
But Sam still feared what darkness woke…
Weeks passed and notes came even more,
On desks, in Bibles, on the floor.
No laugh was shared, no prank seemed right,
Just creeping dread through day and night.
The cook’s own shoes moved place to place,
As if disturbed by hands with grace.
A stalker? Ghost? Or secret foe?
They couldn’t guess, they didn’t know.
Then one dark March and late at night,
Sam hatched a plan to catch this blight.
He gathered men to stake their claim,
To hide and watch and end the game.
They crouched in corners, still and tense,
Through halls that echoed eerie sense.
Then one man walked, just for a peek—
And found what none dared hope to seek.
A kitchen light began to glow,
He dashed inside, eyes wide with woe.
A girl stood there—frail, eyes like flame,
She whispered soft, “Please stop this game…”
Behind her loomed a shadow tall,
The captor cruel, the one who’d crawl.
But Leslie ran—her hope renewed,
Into his arms, no longer food.
Her tale would shock the world so deep—
She hadn’t died, but lived in sleep.
For one-two-nineteen days she’d stayed,
In attic dark where Ernest laid.
He watched her close and fed her lies,
“Just wait, I’ll earn your freedom’s prize.”
But she grew wise, and so she tried,
To leave her clues, though hope had died.
She moved the shoes, she scrawled the note,
She took more food than they could tote.
And when the cops once climbed above,
They missed her there in crawlspace glove.
But Sam believed when others scoffed,
And stayed alert while others doffed.
Until the night they met her face—
And ended pain in that cruel place.
Ernest paid with prison years,
While Leslie rose beyond her fears.
She fought for kids, with law and might,
A beacon born from darkest night.
So if you hear strange things take flight,
Don’t laugh too soon in morning light.
For sometimes, truth behind the wall—
Is darker, braver… and braver still.