The Book of Weston

I find myself in a haunted house,

a classic manor, open dining room,

every surface spray-painted blue-black

and draped with plastic cobwebs,

and two symmetrical staircases spiral

up in opposite directions to a balcony

overlooking a long wooden table

spread with plates and platters

filled with bones.

I look up at the purple stage lights

shining from the rafters, but somehow

this reminder of artificiality doesn't quell

my growing unease. I notice

a red glow emanating from under a doorway.

Did the doorknob move or did I imagine it?

Hello, I squeak, but nothing replies,

so I approach and open the door.

Inside: an ordinary bathroom

unnaturally clean and modern for this house,

divided in half by saloon-style swinging doors.

In the first half are twin sinks

and mirrors I dare not stare into.

The red glow fills the deeper half

of the room. I push through the doors.

An ordinary toilet, a shower,

but mounted on one wall:

a large opaque rectangular light,

the source of the red, pulsing

like a slow heartbeat.

Without warning, a strong wind blows,

lifting and pushing me back.

Is someone here? I blurt.

There is a presence; I can feel it.

A gentler breeze swirls around me,

cooling me, whispering my name.

No, I think. No,

this is not him. He is not here.

I am, a voice insists.

Don't be afraid.

The red light glows in sync with his voice.

The identity of that presence,

although absurd, is undeniable.

I found you, says the voice.

I didn't think it was possible.

It isn't; you're dead, I say,

and the unreality of this place strikes me:

a bathroom in a haunted house where?

I reach out my hand and place my palm

against the warm plastic, and for a moment,

I am here and he is here and death

is a fading dream.

Then a sharp wave of vertigo embraces me

and the room tilts and I wake up

re-orienting to my cold bedsheets,

possibly alone.