The Mirror That Knew My Name

The house already knew my name before I stepped through the door. Paint hung like

dead skin, windows stared with wet, glassy eyes that wouldn't blink.

The floorboards whispered as I walked, like the house was practicing how to say my name using

my own bones. The hallway darkness didn't wait. It leaned close. It listened.

It ate the light from every corner and left pennies dissolving on my tongue.

Then I heard her. A lullaby stitched together from static and crying, threading through

the walls, dragging me forward step by step. My shadow couldn't follow.

It split apart behind me, shaking on the ceiling like it wanted to run.