They Say This House is Haunted
by Stephanie DuPont
All I observe are visitors, slipping between the walls,
unafraid. They come and go,
singing in salted winds,
breathing lavender and rose.
Do they notice the shadowed cloud?
“They say this house is cursed;”
Yet, I am the one who’s cursed.
Witness the distress of my face—
stained-glass windows darkened with age,
my gloomy clapboard sides. Hidden
in the wilting ferns, gripping me,
slowly strangling. This place once sheltered lives,
bound by the tales spun under my roof.
Malevolence slithers down the seven gables,
curling through chimneys, dead ashes,
to my solitary table—waiting,
always waiting.
I drift in and out—
cross the threshold—don’t mind my creaking floors,
my weathered doors, decaying bricks—
—welcome to the dark—embark.
The candlelight flickers, shadows swirl—
do you sense the past pressing close?
Nathaniel, are you there?
Did you feel the weight of guilt buried deep
behind eyes
in portraits hung and framed?
Oh, what these rooms have seen—
each secret that’s been lost
like a witch
in Salem, 1692
I persist. I remain.
Climb my secluded staircase if you dare,
stains cling to every step.
It’s not the ghosts that haunt me here—
it’s the wallpaper tearing
like a soul without adhesive.
This house is more than wood and stone—
it keeps the sins we thought were thrown
away. Yet here they linger, still alive.
And I? I invite all who come to hide.
Stephanie DuPont, originally from Miami, Florida, writes poetry to articulate what feels impossible to say, uncover new ideas, and explore the profound histories and small moments that shape our lives. Her work has appeared in The Seventh Quarry Press, Snakeskin, Reach Poetry, and The Dawntreader. She is the winner of multiple poetry contests. A passionate advocate for nature, she has volunteered in the Florida Everglades and at Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden.
