Poem - The Murder House

There is a house that still calls my name
I lived there.
I made promises.

The house held a ghost we called
the “Old Norwegian” –
He who made the carvings above the door.
He’d change the channels on the TV.
There was a young lady also,
who sat on the landing
In Victorian garb.

Others wandered in and out,
Shades dressed in myriad hues of trauma and grace.
Some of us had bodies.