I used to live in a retirement block not a million miles from Seven Dials. There was one poor resident who wandered the corridors in the wee hours, ringing doorbells, then disappearing before the luckless occupant answered the door. The culprit was never identified.

They seek it here, and hunt it there
and chase that phantom caller everywhere.

‘Cos late-rung bell, or midnight knock
disturbs your dream-filled slumbers with a shock.

We search the roof, the lift-shaft too,
but not a hint of hide or hair shows through.

The halls and stairs, and basements bare
are scoured, yet yield no nightly prowler’s lair.

What of the lawns and distant trees of yew
(where, some say, fairies live, with elves and goblins too)?

No luck again but no surprise to me,
I can’t envisage prowlers up a tree.

They bring in dogs to no avail,
the mystery caller leaves no trace nor trail.

Comes Mr Holmes (we use the best),
but even he, says Watson, fails the test.

It’s finally clear that what we chase
is far from part of any human race.

It is in fact unholy ghost unseen,
the very essence of All Hallows E’en.

So let’s abandon fruitless seeking
and be resigned to spooky trick-or-treating.

It may cause fright or even fear
but do give thanks it’s only once a year…

Peter Black