I like listening to the house. The strangle little clicks, soft humming from the depths beneath me.

I sit here in the dark, feeling imaginary hands around my ankles, as if I’m being haunted.

Creaking wood cries out and I respond that fear never wins. The windows rattle with the wind as I sit in stillness.

The grasp on my ankles loosens and the house begins to breathe alongside me.

There I am, with these old bones.