It is still there, a haunted house that is only haunted for
me, I am a ghost that strolls passed it three or four times a year, forced to
reconcile with what happened here, not a murder, but a seduction, a vision of
what got done in one of these rooms, who whom, like a game of “Clue” I replay
each time, trying to find evidence to a dream that is not a crime – save how it
unfolds in my mind. It is still here, haunting me, beckoning me to go inside,
but I never do, thinking instead of “Mr. Mustard in the library with a knife,”
or at least something that resembling a knife, nearly as long and deadly,
leaving stains on satin sheets, but no fingerprints, these dreadful thoughts
running my head like a black & white movie, with Hitchcock somewhere in the
wings, a ghost story, in which I play the ghosts.
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