The sound is a whisper,

On the air,

Along with the creeping essence,

Of the coldness of hands,

That grace the hallways,

Tracing down to your bedroom.

There’s the faint smell of cigarettes,

The creaking of feet,

That could not be there.

The cameras do not show,

Anything at all.

Your home holds an echo,

Of something that died a long time ago.

The spirit is sure of its purpose,

But only it knows that purpose,

Only it knows what it wants,

And what it will do—

And why it will kill you.

–

Special thanks to: Melissa Potter

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