Itís here, you can find it if you look in all the right places. The dark under the floral bedspread. Beneath the canopy of tattered stars on the ceiling. Beneath the mattress. That sweet, softened menace, sticky as candy. Thereís a story in every house. A ghost of a girl gone missing inside me. The way the trees line the street blackly, how it reminds you of boys, or choking. Tiny fissures in all the figurines. Everywhere, that dirty dirty lip of dust. Sometimes you can still hear the cries of jump ropers. The spirits echoing softly down the well. Your hands so cold and numb you can taste the blood in the water, its rusty, metallic soreness. On a good day, silence sitting and waiting on the floorboards. On a good night, the tiny imprints of fingers on the window sill, waiting forever.