My house is haunted.
It makes sounds that remind me of people who are gone.
My own ankles cracking and clicking up the stairs and down the hall, into his old room in the middle of the night.
I’m aware that creaking joints going down this very hall were the soundtrack to my childhood.
The bathtub drain hums a muggy whisper, but the floor isn’t wet.
And my guts, they’re haunted too. By lots of people, but lately dad. I don’t tolerate nightshades since he passed.