THE HOUSE KNOWS There's a woman in the hallway wearing somebody's perfume, and the piano keeps on playing though nobody's in the room. There's a name beneath the table, written where the candle drips. I could swear I never read it, but I know it from her lips. Don't ask the house what happened. Don't ask the mirror why. Some things only tell the truth when everybody lies. Pour another little secret, let it settle in the glass. If you want to know who killed the night, don't ask who died last. There's a card beneath the ashtray, face down beside the gin. Funny thing about the future— sometimes it lets you in. There's a stain upon the carpet shaped almost like a rose. Nobody remembers seeing it. Everybody knows. Don't ask the house what happened. Don't ask the mirror why. Some things only tell the truth when everybody lies. Pour another little secret, let it settle in the glass. If you want to know who killed the night, don't ask who died last. The dead don't haunt the living. They haunt what we conceal. And every locked confession has a key it won't reveal. Maybe the room remembers. Maybe memory's a thief. Maybe every ghost we've buried is just another kind of grief. Don't ask the house what happened. Don't ask the mirror why. There's a woman at the window and she doesn't have a face tonight. Pour another little secret. Let the last one take its time. If you want to know who killed the night— Don't ask. The house knows.
