Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Poetry 2017 | Page 102

Dust disturbed and ghosts awakened.
The creaky floorboards,
Miraculously survived the colonial age,
The wind whistles,
Sending a chill down my spine.
I know it’s just this bleak, old house,
I know it’s just the harsh wind blowing,
But fear still creeps in,
As I feel it’s sharp grasp on my neck,
My heart falls into a tangled heap at the bottom of my stomach.
Only fear keeps my feet planted onto the ground.
I have heard stories,
I have been warned,
This is a place one should not linger.
But leaving it alone was not an option.
All around the house were scars of innocent children,
The rainbow bookshelves that had seen better days,
The short stools and broken pencils,
Most of it died along with the house.
Portraits of the dead line up the empty hallways,
Unfinished confessions whisper along them.
Do we keep our houses or do they keep us?
I have never heard of a silence quite this loud,
This house was a decayed mess of animal debris.
Bones, mysterious bits and bobs,
A tidal wave of animal food crashed down as took a step closer to them.
The ghosts of the mansion were unsettled,
This is the reason I was here.
I hastily left my mess behind,
But I know that I’m not alone.
I imagine the lavish peacocks, rare tigers, bitter lizards and exotic animals parading around the
mansion,
I imagine the two wealthy paint merchants.
I imagine the shock of their disappearance.
I imagine the innocent children filling this place with magic and life.
I imagine the mystery of the workers sent to knock down this building coming out with animal
wounds and bites.
Were they phantom bites from the ghosts of the past?