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
Helping mother into the bed
Laying quiet, hiding under covers
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.