They check the locks
and install cameras,
hoping to catch the crafty villains
that plague their life like a mysterious virus.
They call crying hysterical,
say it happened again while they slept.
Messed with. Nothing on the cameras.
No evidence.
But they’ve never been more sure.
Hands on them.
Footsteps in the middle of the night
that don’t belong to the house.
It’s a dark cult
that’s been trailing them for years, they say, wild-eyed.
An abyss of confusion.
I acquiesce, ask questions,
think to myself, this sounds impossible,
but I nod, because not nodding costs too much.
They scribble notes, build timelines,
stack their case, like a scene at a mad tea party.
One day, it’s the keys.
They’re missing.
And then found.
Swear someone stole them.
And then added this mysterious symbol
to the ring.
I hold them in my hand.
Same scratches.
They look identical.
To how they always looked.
But then they glance at me.
And those eyes cut through.
Like I’m part of it now.
Now they carry a mysterious illness.
And I’m not saying they don’t,
but all the research that fits their agenda
insists a move out west to Utah
or Nevada would cure things.
Anywhere with more sunshine.
Pack the kids in the car,
like it’s a harmless field trip,
like geography can chase away ghosts.
And I try, I really do.
Patience like a prayer,
thinking until my brain bruises.
Because they’re not stupid, not even close,
which makes it worse.
Sometimes I think it’s all planned.
They know exactly what they’re doing,
that it’s a game with rules
that I never learned,
and the kids are just along for the ride.
I hope one day
the sunlight reaches their mind.
You speak of a bizarre situation. If it’s not dementia than it’s paranoia. That can be hard to deal with, especially when moving to another state is seriously considered. Definitely a case for stress for the one who has to listen to it all. Good one, Thomas.
Oh wow, I swear I know these people. Unfortunately, in the case of mine, they’re not fully imagining things. When a bit of real harassment is lad down, it builds on a mind until everything becomes subject to suspect. It sucks for those observing and listening, but more so for them. Solid write here
I enjoy writes that are unexpected and take you on a journey.
Good or bad. This write is excellent. I personally loved
Patience like a prayer,
thinking until my brain bruises.
This whole piece is pretty awesome, bizarre and all.
“But then they glance at me.
And those eyes cut through.
Like I’m part of it now.”
Hauntingly penned, Thomas. Another excellent write with amazing storytelling my friend. The verse above gave me goosebumps. It’s always feels like we’re on a journey in your stories. Nicely done as always. Appreciate you.
Damian
Footsteps that do not belong to the house are a rupture, not necessarily danger,
but a shift in the contract between space and silence.
They mark the moment when architecture stops being loyal.
Appreciate you!