I live in this house. This house is mine.
Every nook, each cranny bears the traces of my hands. The traitorous creaks of the floorboards during hide-and-seek and the darkest places which have never seen daylight, I know them all. I can tell the moods of the weather by the sighs from the walls.
I live in this house. This house is mine.
Perhaps it was only my tired mind, playing tricks, twisting perception, that explained the shadows flitting at the corner of my eye. There are moments when a door would open upstairs, startling me from my reading. At night, I would be awakened by vague whispers from the other rooms. All these trouble me, for I know I am alone.
Yet, I live in this house, for this house is mine.
I cannot rest now. The shadows grow bolder, stark, and sharp as they flit across my field of vision. The doors would now open to the sound of heavy footsteps. And the whispers have become voices loud and clear.
“They did not say this house was haunted.”
I live in this house. This house is mine.
And I will never ever leave.
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Written by @lekzumali
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