The House at the End

There’s a house –

at the end of the road –

you know the one.

-

Windows like cataracts –

and a door that hasn’t opened in years,

but sometimes –

ajar.

-

No one moves in.

No one moves out.

But the porch light flickers

like a dying pulse.

-

Once, a man walked up those steps.

Knocked twice.

The house swallowed the sound.

He never knocked again.

-

A murmur lingers –

under the floorboards.

Soft.

Repeating.

The neighbor swears it’s just rats.

But rats don’t whisper.

-

At night, the shadows stretch

longer than they should.

The wind dies

before it reaches the gate.

-

The postman skips this address.

The children cross the street.

-

This is Old Town.

Every year, more people vanish.

Old ones,

who linger too long.

Young ones,

who never do.

-

And the house –

which was human,

once, and no longer –

listens to other voices.

From beyond the house, where the city ends.

Old wilderness.

from before names,

and roads.

A place of mists,

and things that shift

when you’re not looking.

-

The house will not stay empty.

It will have a family.

Then more.

-

One by one.

No one moves in.

No one moves out.

-

Then one day –

Not anyone.

.