Behind

I felt it when the hallway light grew thin,

before the evening settled into black,

as though the house had slowly breathed me in

and placed some patient presence at my back.

No footstep came, yet still the carpet sighed,

a tired sound, too gentle to be floor,

and every frame I passed seemed turned aside,

as if it knew what waited near the door.

The air held traces I could almost place,

old lavender, damp wool, a thread of smoke;

a faded warmth that brushed against my face,

then vanished when the kitchen timer spoke.

I told myself old houses keep their cold,

and not all things that linger must be told.

But still the stair complained beneath no weight,

one careful creak above my lifted head,

and in the glass beside the garden gate

the room behind me looked too deeply red.

A chair stood angled toward the empty hall,

though I had left it tucked beneath the sill,

and somewhere past the papered parlour wall

a music box forgot, then started still.

It played three notes, no more, then lost its tune,

as if a hand had faltered halfway through;

outside, the clouds drew curtains round the moon,

inside, the dark leaned closer than it knew.

I would not turn, because the fear had grown

too shaped, too near, too much like being known.

So on I walked, with all the lamps awake,

past photographs whose silver faces shone,

past cups that gave a tiny china shake,

past rooms that felt less empty when alone.

And when I reached the door and found the key,

a hush drew close enough to stir my hair;

the lock clicked open much too quietly,

yet still I felt it waiting on the stair.

No voice called out, no hand touched mine in fright,

no face appeared to prove what I had guessed;

there was only the house, the watching night,

the cold that gathered near my shoulder-blest.

I stepped outside, but knew before I fled

that something old had followed where I led.