The House that Breathes

Beneath the moon’s uneasy light,

Where oaks bend low in silent fright,

A house decays in rotting sleep,

Its windows watch, its stairways creep.

No one lives there. So they claim.

Yet shadows shift and whisper names.

At dusk, the air begins to weigh,

And time itself slips far away.

The doorknob turns by unseen hands,

A hush spreads out across the land.

The floorboards groan like crackly bones,

A lullaby of haunted moans.

Its walls remember every name

Of those who dared its little game.

Some came in, just like you

With brave hearts and skeptic views.

He laughed at creaks, ignored the chill,

Mocked the dark, and mocked the still…

Until, with wide, unblinking eyes,

He froze at air that came alive.

The silence shattered into screams,

Not heard, but felt in broken dreams.

The house inhaled, he smelled like fear.

It knew his name. It drew him near.

It tore bad whispers from his mind,

Looped his cries and froze his time.

A foghorn sound, a fractured vow,

A devil turned to deity now.

Still it waits, its hunger keen.

It watches through the in-between.

Step inside, if you so dare,

But leave your soul upon the stair.

For once you’re claimed, you can’t be free.

The house that breathes becomes the sea

Of blurred-out faces, wide and grim,

And kindly eyes that beckon in.

The Pen That Never Runs Dry

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