Creaking of footsteps on worn out floorboards

a quiet echo under the veil of night drifting cooly through window       

panes cracked like the homes and hunting grounds of spiders stretching like the gossamer arms of phantoms

collecting in every corner of the room

I wander through this empty shell of long lost lives

the wail of ghosts as chilled and stubborn as my bones

reaching

for the brass handle of the door at the end of the hall gilded gold faded by an eternal endless night out of reach of the sun

My ears perk up with every room that slams its doors

with every breeze drifting past when the wind has stopped

every whisper from the grave that reaches through the thin walls

demanding that I listen

Sometimes I do

because these haunted hallways are mine to wonder through

So when I hear the phantoms rattling their chains in the tallest tower I am not afraid and I don’t go towards the sound

The lights can flicker and there are times when I can walk away knowing that there is nothing there

These darkened hallways and echoing rooms are mine

the ghost on the spiral staircase is no stranger

neither is the one in the study

or the one in the basement

And when they whisper to me that the flames are climbing high

I can sometimes look out the window and realize that nothing is on fire

I can almost ignore them

I can almost tell myself there is no such thing as ghosts

Sometimes I can even lose their voices when I leave