I have heard myself say that a house with death in it
Can never be bought or sold by the living.
It can only be borrowed from the ghosts that have stayed behind,
To go back and forth, letting out and gathering back in again
Worrying over the floors in confused circles,
Tending to their deaths like patchy, withered gardens.
They have stayed back to look for a glimpse of the very last moment of their lives.
But the memories of their own deaths, are faces on the wrong side of wet windows smeared by rain
Impossible to properly see.
There is nothing that chains them to the places where their bodies have fallen.
They are free to go but still they confine themselves, held in place by their looking.
For those who have stayed their prison is their never seeing,
And left all alone, this is how they rot.
–I am the pretty thing that lives in the house