The spider silk creep of fear as you sat before the TV as it split into a white and black storm. The static shouting louder than the movie you weren’t supposed to have on. 3 AM and the only soul awake in the house is you.

Nestled in the end room like a dormouse during winter. The held breath as you tiptoed to the bathroom sleep far from your eyes. Stained wood creaked under your feet as the old house breathed in and out through the night— a deep sleep that you hoped it would not wake from.

The levered joists of a ragged futon mewed as you settled back into your bundle of blankets. The TV quiet now— you try to match the inaudible inhale and exhale of the house— but it does not breath as you do.

You catch the final verse of an old lullaby as you sink further into the blankets and long awaited rest.

In the morning you’ll be washed of the midnight secrets— the echoes of the story will linger until the sun greets your face— and then not again until next quiet eve.