Mildew

I take a draw of a stranger's cigarette.

Eyes transfixed on the house with the red door.

Windows held in place by weathered wooden frames.

Black mould rises from the earth,

weaving a tapestry of decay into the stone walls.

I can smell the dank seeping from the memory.

-

A stranger walks into the open road.

I hesitate under the weight of watchful eyes,

leering from the upstairs window.

Or is it from across the yard?

-

The red door splinters wide, grinning,

its sharp teeth welcoming me home.

A stranger enters.

And waits.

-

The ghost of a record plays from across the room,

echoing through the empty space.

The floor creaks as it remembers the shape of life.

Cold lyrics dance on the back of my neck.

-

A flash of movement in the peripheral

sends shivers where I never grew a spine.

Run.

Hide.

-

The halls shift and morph into a shadowy maze,

falsehood haunting the corners at every bend.

I move faster, heavy footfalls.

“Aren't you going to invite me in?”

No.

But it follows.

It always follows.

-

A stranger falls to their knees beside a wrought iron bed.

Pink frilly bedspread.

A layer of mildew.

Innocence stains the carpets.

-

“Can you keep a secret?”

It's right behind me now.

A garbled cry catches in my throat.

Skin crawls under the invasion of its touch.

-

“Good girls don't make a sound.”

Good girls....

-

I look in the mirror and watch a stranger light a cigarette.

Her smile is wide.

It doesn't reach her eyes.

A single match burns between her fingers.

Her mouth moves, but I only hear my voice.

“Can you keep a secret?”

-

The match falls.

The room ignites.

Good girls don't make a sound.