The house was haunted, of course.

It had always been haunted.

Even the baby crawled a wide arc across the living room,

skirting the sightline of the man with long fingers.

The eyes and hands reaching out from the wall.

Yellowed, brown nails, 

thin knobby bones

Formless black beyond

She kept the light in the bathroom on all night

An blazing anteroom between them

Hallway door open

So mother can hear her scream.

Whatever force kept his fromless body 

From pressing though

His eyes pierced easily

Fingers always working

She waited anxious

For the time she would not be obliged to stay

She walked a black night under the trees easy

The endless universe falling away past the stars held no horror

But his reach is wide

Child like, childlike 

returned

Helping mother into the bed

Laying quiet, hiding under covers

Time collapsed

Helping mother pull on her sheet

Gnarled fingers turned soft, slipping on the corner.

We can’t see his eyes, staring out anymore

But we don’t need to.

The house is haunted.

It has always been haunted.