HORROR Poem: The House Remebers Him, by Laasya Uppalapati

The house remembers.
That’s what the old woman said
when she handed me the keys.
She looked at me
like she knew
exactly who I was grieving.
Exactly what I was trying to bring back.

It’s his house.
Was his house.
Ours, once,
before he disappeared into the kind of silence
you can’t call back from.

I came here
because something in me believed
he might still be waiting.
Not alive.
Just
here.

And maybe I was right.

At night, the bedroom smells like his cologne.

Not strong, just enough to stop my breath.
The record player spins without prompting,
playing the same vinyl
he played the day he said,
“This house has a heart, you know.”

The third step creaks.
Always the third.
He used to skip it.
I never told him I liked that sound.

Now, the house skips it too.

Sometimes I hear him calling my name.
It’s never loud.
Just behind me.
Or below me.
Or inside the walls
like he’s pacing
and waiting
and watching.

His clothes are still folded
where I left them.
But last week,
one of his sweaters was on the floor
like someone wore it
and changed their mind.

I saw him once.
Or something that looked like him.
By the mirror.
He didn’t move.
But his eyes were mine
and his mouth didn’t smile
the way I remember.

This house
knows I want him back.
And it’s giving me pieces
like scraps of a dream
stitched together
with grief
and something darker.

The house remembers him.
And now,
so do I.
Even the parts
I tried to bury.

But it’s not him,
not really.
It just wears his voice.
Wears his shape.
Wears my want
like a key.

And I think
it’s waiting for me
to stop noticing the difference.