Every night I haunt a house in Russia
Every night I haunt a house in Russia. I haunt the ghosts who live there. It's unintentional.
I didn't know where I was, or that I even was anywhere. To me it was just dream after dream of the same place – the woods, the snow,
the overhanging balcony like iced gingerbread,
and inside, the dark, cramped wooden staircase I found myself climbing over and over against my will always awakening before my feet touched the landing. A blessing.
Years passed in my dreams and in the world where I dreamed.
The ghosts got used to me, and eventually took a liking to me. I learned their names but I never remember them. They take no offense.
I'm like a little doggy who comes to visit now and again. They feed me, so to speak, scratch behind my ears. I guess I must entertain them.
I still don't like the stairs. Even now that I've seen what's at the top, and that the room isn't going to hurt me. That no ghosts in this place will hurt me.
'Will' is different from 'can' though. And sometimes things change.
I finally went up the stairs. All the way up. The paint up here is still bright, because it has stayed so dark. At some point, someone blackened the stained glass windows.
There are two chairs facing each other across the room.
Maybe the conversations up here were very nice once, with the light streaming through the windows.
No one's come up to talk to me yet.
And even though I'm alone, I can't make myself go back down the stairs.
There's a table, you see, off to the side. A red one, next to the stairs. On the table is a hook.
I can't get past that table.
No one comes to talk to me. Not even the ghosts.
I've been here a while now. Waiting to wake up.
Come see me?