The dream was one of those that comes
late in a sleep cycle and doesn’t let go quietly
as morning inches towards the light.
There was a winding staircase of stone and wood
climbing a shadowed hillside.
It was in my hometown,
near a service station off the highway.
It led to a house that filled my entire body
with dread, like a horror-movie skeleton
curling around my chest,
whispering vile words into my ears.
A place where edges blur and shed.
Bad things happen in this house.
Somehow, eventually, I forgot I’d had the dream.
And then, months later,
I went home for a funeral,
wearing black ceremoniously.
And now I was in the car heading home.
I didn’t ask to go this way.
My sister didn’t know, but
she drove us past a large hillside
near the service station off the highway.
And I saw the staircase.
I was too afraid to stop and see what it led to.
Because I knew.
I knew why it was there,
I knew why I was there.
There are many people
inside the house.
There are many rooms
within its walls.
There is an altar and a stage.
The people wear black and gray.
I didn’t ask to go this way.
But I knew why I was there.
