Can we really say we’ve had the complete Halloween experience if we don’t visit at least one Witch’ House?
Take my word for it’s just not the same so
here a few little windows to get you ready for the trip:
Sometimes I wake up in my dining
and sometimes I wake up
in the attic
a few days later I might wake up in the basement and on that same day
it’s possible I will wake up under the kitchen window
where the earth is soft because the rain gutter gave way years ago
and that entire patch of ground is a soupy mess even in the Summer.
Sometimes I fall asleep in the little space behind the bathroom wall
where the medicine cabinet used to hang over the sink.
But no matter where I wake up and where I fall asleep
all of those parts of me
that the rats and mice and feral cats have dragged from floor to floor
in my dead and empty house
you can hear me crying out, after I’ve had a bad dream
about that night my husband came home and smothered me in my sleep
and them ran away with his girlfriend with the nicotine stained finger tips
you can hear me crying in despair and rage
Today for Linda G Hill’s One Liner Wednesday I’ve chosen this quote from Shirley Jackson about her process for writing ghost stories-
She read ” Little Women ” to chase away the ghosts that filled her head before she went to sleep-
me, I eat something spicy and hope for the best ( wink ).
I hope you enjoy her quote and the two haunted houses I dug up for you to look at:
I was already doing a lot of splendid research reading all the books about ghosts I could get hold of, and particularly true ghost stories – so much so that it became necessary for me to read a chapter of _Little Women_ every night before I turned out the light – and at the same time I was collecting pictures of houses, particularly odd houses, to see what I could find to make into a suitable haunted house.
RDP Wednesday: MIST
Do you know that
when the fog
crawls across the rocks, through the woods, across the lake
to my front door
I can hear it breathing?
That’s how I know it’s alive.
Do you know that when it reaches the edge of my yard-
the very edge of my yard where my porch light ends and the darkness begins
a thin dark line smudged at the edges
it sighs a little and stops where the light is
and I can hear the grass and flowers and the dry dead leaves on the ground popping like
corn in a cast iron pot, a treat from a long time ago?
Sometimes I forget to turn the porch light on
I forget to snap on the lamp in my living room window
and the mist crosses my yard to my house
and when it arrives it gently touches each panes of glass
it caresses each crack, each loose board
it takes it’s time before it creeps in and settles down with me
for the night
and it tells it’s stories to my shivering bones.