House of Quiet Things

There’s a light that flickers in the hall,

though I swear I changed that bulb last spring.

The air hums low, a nervous thing—

like the house is trying not to sing.

Last night, the piano played itself.

A single note. Too long. Too near.

I called out softly, “Who is there?”—

and wished I didn’t hear.

There’s writing on the fogged-up glass,

letters forming, pale and thin.

Sometimes it says get out, sometimes stay,

sometimes it just spells come in.

The clocks don’t tick, but time still moves.

The air feels wrong, though still.

I caught my face in the mirror’s curve—

and felt the mirror chill.

I found my shoes beside the door,

mud still clinging, dark and wet.

But outside, there were no footprints—

only ground that never set.

Now strangers walk these rooms at dusk.

They whisper like I’m not there.

One weeps and says, “It feels so cold…”

and sets a candle on the stair.

I reach to touch her trembling hand—

but nothing meets my own.

And then I see—the house I feared

was never mine alone.