I don’t believe in ghosts,
Not the rattling of chains or the cold breath down my neck.
But I’ve heard the floorboards groaning in the night,
As if the if they carry the weight of those we won’t forget.
I don’t believe in shadows,
Stretching in long branches of darkness under my door.
They pool like spilled ink between the cracks,
Curling fingers scraping across the floor.
I don’t believe in whispers,
The brush of voices in the air that trace bodiless words against my ear.
Empty silence filled with my own criticism,
Broken sobs that linger even when no one stands near.
I don’t believe in footsteps,
Pausing when I pause, circling when I hide.
I hold my breath, waiting for silence to return,
But they slither along the edges, just beyond my side.
I don’t believe in eyes,
But they watch me from the corners of my room.
The blinking light that crawls closer and closer,
Scowls that twist and stretch toward impending doom.
I don’t believe in the cold,
Not the rippling chill that sends shivers up my spine.
But it coils around me anyway, slithering beneath my blankets,
Finding the places where warmth refuses to linger.
I don’t believe in doors,
Yet they creak open on their own, wake me from a restless sleep.
And in the hollow halls that follow beyond, something lurks in wait,
A hunger that stirs with secrets buried too deep.
