Haunted House
The looming house smelled of stale pumpkin pies,
When I stepped in through the creaking door to distant cries.
The lore said a mistress had waited a century for her lover,
Before drowning herself in the nearby river.
Her portrait still hung over the fireplace,
Her face was veiled in translucent black lace.
Her armchair still rocks deep into the night,
Her footsteps echo down the hallway to the right.
I stare back at myself in the mirror by the withering parlor,
And see a replica of the portrait in drenched clothes, with a sickly pallor.
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