The creak of the floorboards

lures me in to the closed attic of the church,

through the narrow stairs,

the winding closing in and choking me,

through the door that seals all the secrets,

the haunted, the paranormal from escape.

I enter, with nothing in hand,

darkness lit by the strand of my shattered light,

Accompanied by a shortness of breath,

goosebumps and hair jumping on my skin.

As I peer at the corner,

I see a hanging chandelier, a scribble of names engraved,

until my sight lands on a mirror,

reflecting the fear of a maybe-creature standing

under the spindly embrace of the oak chests,

or sitting by the cold window,

enjoying the company of a fractured life.

I stare at the mirror and it stares back at me,

shaping itself to taunt me, whispering I can see you.

As my heart pounds against my ribs, I feel

beings on misty legs permeating through my body;

Running laps around my brain, twisting and turning,

through the entwining maze inside my mind

and out into the light through the wet pupils.

I shudder in pain,

as if that would shake these souls away.

There are ghosts in my brain, sleeping on the tangled paths;

awakened by a reminder of my fears;

telling me through mist-filled lips

and soulless eyes

and chilled fingers that

fears cannot be forgotten.