The Uniform Ghost

The magistrate sat in his velvet chair, shakin' in his shoes.

With a glass of scotch to drown the terror and the blues. He swore the

door was bolted tight, the windows sealed with wax. No mortal soul

could breach this room to swing the ax. The guards were

standing rigid like toy soldiers in the snow. Watching for a phantom shadow

or a spectral glow. They were looking for a villain in

a cape and a disguise. While the real intruder walked right past their

open eyes. It wasn't magic, it wasn't a trick of the light.