HORROR Poem: Grandma’s House, by Verlishia Clay

The basement smells like
rust and hush money.

Grandma says it’s the pipes,
but the pipes haven’t worked
since granddaddy disappeared.

There’s a bible on every stair.
Salt at the bottom.
A mason jar of teeth by the furnace.

The washing machine hums
like it knows a secret.

We don’t go down there.
Not since Mama came back up
with white hair and a limp.

Grandma keeps cooking
like nothing ever happened—
says men always find their way
into dark places.

We just don’t let them back out.