Piled up dishes, Paint flakinge from the windows, The smell of damp.

No one’s been here in this limbo Until the century’s breaking

But from above there’s one step, Then another. Another ghost hunter or the little brother?

It’s the former He’s on the stairs “2 kids,” he said “2 kids died here.”

His EMF in hand is flashing. At the windows, the rain is lashing.

“2 kids,” he repeats He shakes his head Then comes the dread The temperature depletes

The wind brushes my ear No, it’s a whisper I turn to flee, but a voice says with glee “It was not 2, I did all 3.”