Papers Found While Re-flooring The Living Room

five

our brave soldier

was the last

over the fence; the rusted wire

cat scratched through her fatigues,

and she died two weeks later,

with an arched back like rigor mortis

in a motorless parking lot

i could see hollow eyes watching us as we ran from the fence,

slender tendon fingers entwined in the chain links

four

our smiling neighbor

was stealing food

and caught a bug; a spider

bite racing black up his veins,

and he died spare minutes later,

with eyes frosted mustard gas yellow

in a rusted red, shallow playground

i could see hollow eyes watching us from the schoolhouse windows,

two emaciated silhouettes illuminated by the orange evening sun

three

our quiet priest

was the first

to be strangled; bent twig fingers

emerging from the dark behind him,

and he died as we ran,

with a croaking sound

in a smoking, shrouded parish

i could see hollow eyes watching us when i locked the front door

moonlight incandescent off the ringed slickness inside their vacant sockets

two

my boy

i can see hollow eyes atop slender figures watching me now

three of them are tall and one of them is small

one

i

am alone

in this house; no one to

sit next to or talk to or hold,

and i think i am done,

even as i write

in an isolated house

i can hear windy whispers shadowing me now

promising that they’ll take me in if i’m feeling lonely

Siblings

Once I woke up in the middle of the night to find that someone had taken down all of my posters while I slept. My door was open so I assumed it had been my brother or sister, both of which liked to play tricks on me.

A Quarter Past One

It's a quarter past one in the morning and you can hear the furnace murmuring downstairs. You've finished the movie and you're tired and need to get ready for bed. You head for the kitchen.

You can only see your reflection in the windows as you pass by them, it’s much too dark and you have most of the lights on inside.

The window by the kitchen sink is warped by age and your reflection is twisted and malformed; it's the only window in the house to create the funhouse effect, but it's always disturbed you. You jump as you always do when you see your reflection, your mind registering that the thing in the window is you a second afterwards. You sigh, reassuring yourself that it is not a monster cast in a pale light from the fluorescents.

You wash the dishes from dinner; the glass with the thin fog of milk crusted on the bottom and the sauce crusted plate. You put the ribs of a pig (age five at time of death) in the trash when you are done. You stare into your warped reflection before turning.

You brush your teeth and take a final look outside the living room window. Except you can only see the dancing shape in the glass before you, cast in a harsh yellow light from the living room lamp.

By the time you’ve realized the living room window isn't warped, it's too late to do anything.