The Stain on our Souls (flash fiction)

The old man speaks of phantoms. He lay on his death-bed, and his face is ashen and sickly.

“Our home,” he says, “it’s haunted. Haunted by my sins. Haunted by my father’s sins, and his father’s sins.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

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Haunted House (a poem)

There’s been trauma in this house

we thought it’d be our forever home

instead, ghosts lurk here

ghosts of murders, suicides

they followed us long after we

left cob-webbed hallways –

the trauma here makes us see things

hallucinations, delusions of despair

we can’t escape it.

(Photo by Stefan Ringler on Unsplash)