Listen, wood remembers every foot you’ve ever owned. Wallpaper freckles into crawling eyes, a wet clock licks seconds off the spine. The keyhole grins; its little teeth count down. Dust writes your name where no dust should. From the cellar, pipes gargle coins and brine; stairs exhume a fifth step you never paid for. You hold your breath. The house holds it longer. Do not run. Do not pray. The door has learned your sway. Do not speak. Do not see. The laugh fits perfectly. Portrait mouths hinge open on their screws, frames chew gilt like nervous teeth. A moth with numbers for wings beats calculus against the bulb. The air gets colder in a careful way like someone measuring how much you’re worth in inches of fog and inches of fear. Do not run. Do not pray. The floor remembers prey. Do not speak. Do not see. The laugh fits perfectly. Good guest, your shadow signed in first. We’ve set the plates: bone china, bone spoons. You brought a heartbeat; we brought a room that eats the distance between footsteps. Take your seat inside your name. When the light goes out, keep smiling it opens things. The hallway blinks and you are smaller.
