I propose
turning the key
useless to
conceal from you that
strange things
take place

it used to
ring of its
own accord

chair by
the window and the
door closed

saw the curtain
detach
falling

when I weary of
looking, something is
bound to appear

walking
backwards

she is frightened
by the sound but
cannot describe it

the face
vanishes, the
hands remain

white arms beneath
fearful drapery

looking out, over
the hill

I burn it, it
distills a dark mucus

curtain
wrenched away

a gossamer
veil, as it
seems

resembling, yet
most unlike her

armless
chair, handless
cup

sloping downwards to
the base of the hill

momentary
grasp around
her ankle

an old-fashioned
house

a narrow
lane on a
declivity