It’s dark here, no sunrise or sunset, just murky, muddled atmosphere. We’re told to stay quiet, keep our eyes down, do as we should and nothing will happen.
We’re in our beds when we hear the banging on the ceiling. It rattles the floor. We’re caught between with our eyes shut tight.
We can’t see in the dust left by burned-out stars but we still wish on the particles.
When it’s time to leave we keep our blankets clutched around us. We follow closely so we don’t lose each other in the ether.
The neighbor’s house is empty, we know even before we peer into the windows.
“No one to help us,” we whisper to each other, falling back into our shuffling line as we continue down the street.
We sense lights coming up ahead, brighter than the wan moonlight we’re used to. It pushes us up the porch stairs of the next house, pitter patter.
The knob turns at our touch and we slip inside, quiet as a whisper. We yearn for the protection of the lock but can’t risk the clang it’d make when it engages.
We press our backs to the wall and survey the empty space: candle still burning on the sideboard, wax dripping onto an open storybook. Without asking, without exchanging looks, we step toward it. Stories have always taught us lessons, kept our secrets. The heart is a storybook, but the wax clouds the page.
Banging on the ceiling—not here, not after we thought it haunted only our house. The neighborhood is a minefield and we’re adrift now. No house can keep us safe. No space.
We’re floating with the stardust but even they can’t disguise something coming up ahead.
Don’t look now. We say it as one.
