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.”

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