The Haunted

The house was swollen with regret.
Its rafters dripped mildew like tears,
Its stairwells bore paths of remembrance.
Every wall gave witness to their life,
Every door barred their exit
From death,
From their buried truths,
And from business not quite finished.

The ghosts there were not free
They were haunted,
They were stirred into the mortar
Their sorrow hammered into nails,
They crawled the halls in broken patterns,
Faces pressed raw against the plaster,
Hands that smeared dust like blood.

Now you listen
Their moans linger behind the wallpaper,
Damp rasps that creep along the seam,
Their eyes reflect in mirrors,
Clouded, milky
Turning toward you
When you swear you are alone.

They mouth the words they died with,
But their pain twists them,
Tongues thick, syllables slurred,
So all you hear is a wet murmur
Rising from the floorboards.
They do not rest.
They do not rage.
They reach.

For the living are warmth,
And warmth could be a door.
When you lie down in their rooms,
You may wake with unease,
Your heart, racing.
When you turn a corner,
You may feel fingers slip cold
Around your wrist.

They are not haunting this place,
They are the unfinished business
That could not cross the threshold.

They are the echo of choices never made,
The weight of paths never taken.
This place is the cage they’ve made
It can not let them go.

For they are the haunted.

~by Heather Patton / Verdant Butterfly

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A creative space with enchanting stories and poems. I write fantasy, folklore and genre bending prose that can step off the path into comedy, adventure or the unsettling at any moment.
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©2026 Heather Patton · The Verdant Butterfly
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