Infatuation, Poetry by Anna Sue Benson

Genre: Dark, Horror

by Anna Sue Benson

I am a skilled,
When I can sneak out,
I walk across town,
over the river bridge,
creep up the one way street,
imagining the subject of my desire.
One my way home
from work,
the grocery store,
running errands,
I drive by,
I wonder
what the neighbors think
about my constant presence
on this quiet side-street.

This object of my desire,
this house,
is mine.
Mine in an unexplainable,
not of this world,
kind of way.
It’s perched up on a hill,
surrounded by trees,
vacant for years,
slowly succumbing to decay and neglect.
I peek in the windows,
see that a remodeling project
has been left unfinished,
building materials long untouched.
The pull this house has on me
is palpable.
I feel,
wholeheartedly feel,
like I should walk up those steps
and through the front door.
It’s my house.
The house makes me believe
the padlocks on the doors,
the deed in someone’s else’s name,
are irrelevant.
I want to,
I need to,
step foot in that house
feel its energy.

I’ve found out everything
I could possibly research.
Built in 1910,
changed hands 19 times
in 40 years,
owned by a company
in Bakersfield, CA
that has no business
owning a house in these parts,
a company
who hasn’t paid the taxes
on my house
in two years.
I imagine,
writing them,
offering to pay the back taxes,
take the house off their hands.
If only I had the means,
to restore it
to the way it deserves to exist,
I would.

I have asked around,
learned all the local history.
People are afraid
of my house.
The land around it,
encircled by many known
Native American burial mounds.
People wonder
if any other burial mounds
were disrespected
in the building of that home,
wonder if there is some curse,
some bad energy
for what might have been done
to a sacred resting place.
Local urban legends
revolve around this house,
the woods around it.

I am undeterred.
I pace the woods behind my house,
pondering a way
I could get inside.
I feel uneasy
the closer I get
to my house.
Maybe it’s that I’m a rule-follower,
I know, from a legal standpoint,
I’m trespassing.
Surely the uneasy feeling
couldn’t be that something is wrong,
off about the property.
I don’t understand
how something so right
could be out of my grasp.
I can’t accept that.
The house
pulls me in.
I don’t know how,
but I can make this happen.
It will be mine.

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