In September’s breeze of ‘eighty-five,
A carriage came down lanes alive.
From London’s streets to country side,
Young Mary came, her grief to hide.
A hundred miles she rode that day,
To where her husband’s aunt did stay.
She stood before the manor tall,
A lonely guest with tears to stall.
The maid received her with a grace,
And showed her to the resting place.
But Mary, with her heart still sore,
Went straight to knock on Auntie’s door.
The aunt was frail, her breath was light,
But smiled at Mary—warm and bright.
They spoke of trains and countryside,
Of pain that Mary couldn’t hide.
Then came the words, “How do you fare?”
A simple phrase, with weight to bear.
And Mary choked and fought the tide,
Of sorrow she had kept inside.
Two years had passed since death had come,
And stilled the breath of her dear one.
Her love had died—a tragic blow—
And left her hollowed out and low.
Though family tried to lend a hand,
She couldn’t meet their soft demand:
“You’re young,” they said, “you’ll love anew.”
But Mary knew that wasn’t true.
“I’m fine,” she lied, then claimed her bed,
While thoughts still raced inside her head.
But sleep would twist the truth once more,
And lead her through a ghostly door.
She dreamed a dream so cold and vast,
Of moonlit fields and haunted past.
A shed stood rotting, deep with dread,
And moaning echoed from its shed.
Drawn forth by fear, she took each stride,
Though terror surged with every bide.
And in that shed—her blood turned ice—
She saw her husband’s ghostly guise.
A woman moaned, face pale and grim,
Yet wore the shattered face of him.
She woke in sweat, her heart a drum,
Unsure of what she’d just become.
To clear her mind, she took a flask,
Slipped on her shoes, a midnight task.
She wandered far, past fence and stone,
And found herself out there alone.
The hill she climbed, the moon her guide,
And as she reached the other side—
She gasped, for in the field ahead,
There stood her nightmare’s chilling shed.
The moaning, too, began once more,
She walked, though fear her conscience tore.
And once again, her hand reached out,
And flung the crooked door without doubt.
Inside, a woman weak and worn,
Lay folded up and bruised and torn.
No ghostly face this time to see,
But someone lost in agony.
Though Mary feared what she should do,
She stayed beside this woman true.
She gave her brandy, warmth, and care,
And watched the stars in midnight air.
At dawn, a wagon passed the field,
And help at last the fates revealed.
The stranger helped them reach the door,
Of Auntie’s house on manor floor.
The doctor came, the woman stayed,
While Mary’s strength began to fade.
She caught a fever, cruel and fast,
And weeks in bed, unconscious passed.
When finally her fever broke,
She saw a figure—calm, bespoke.
The woman saved now sat in grace,
With joy and peace upon her face.
And then the tale began to flow,
A truth so wild, it stole the show.
The woman told of fire at sea,
A stranger’s hand that set her free.
They washed ashore, they fought to live,
With only hope and time to give.
The stranger lost his mind in strife,
And vanished from his former life.
She traced his roots with what she had,
Through hunger, pain, and pathways bad.
She meant to tell the kin he knew,
But fell too short and nearly through.
The shed became her final stop,
Until brave Mary did not drop—
But chose to sit and share the night,
To warm the cold, and spark the light.
And then she laughed, her tale now done,
And said, “You’ve known him—he’s the one!”
And through the door, a man did tread…
It was her husband—back from dead.
Not ghost, not dream, but flesh and bone,
He smiled at her and walked alone.
He hugged her tight—no words to speak—
As tears rolled down both of their cheeks.
He’d saved a life, then lost his name,
And Mary’s dream had sparked the flame.
To find the one who found her soul,
And make again their broken whole.
Their story spread both far and wide,
Of love that fate could not divide.
Yet none could say just how or why—
A dream had led her ‘neath the sky.
So if you wake from dreams that chill,
That pull you forth against your will,
Remember Mary’s midnight roam—
A dream once brought her husband home.