The bell rang we headed to a call.
An old woman was standing just inside the door.
The police were supposed to take her away.
Now she stands in the empty house with her stares and nothing to say.

Her presence has made me upset.
We were not supposed to feel ashamed of burning.
And as I find more books to throw into the flame.
I temporarily loose my mind and I take a hidden book away.

We pumped the rooms full of kerosene.
The woman would not move from her stance of accusation.
Beatty tried to force her into flight, but she slowly extended her hand to reveal an unlit match.

We backed away. She stood and glared in condemnation

And what should I make of this?
Do I cry? Do I smile? Do I sit in apprehension?
What power do these books possess?
What will I tell my wife when she sees my new acquisition?