She left two days before the wedding. This four-story townhouse in Berkeley Square is all I have now, the upkeep is not something I’ve given much attention. Gradually, the façade has become stained with soot and dirt, straw strewn across the backyard. The carpets which should have felt her footfall are left unrolled. I rarely see the sunrise or the outside world, the vulgar bustle of London life is not for me.

my candle flickers
from window to window
the night is MINE

The ‘shape’ first came to me one cold November night, thudding footsteps on the stairs. A foul stench accompanied the door’s opening. In the half-light, it was impossible to make out the features of this awful mass, changing shape with the flicker of the candle. A strange taste in my mouth, always precedes the first footstep on the stairs.

some say it rises
from the sewer


Looking from the street I don’t see much evidence of life inside the townhouse. Mr. Myers disappeared a few years ago, leaving the property to further dilapidation. Breaking in through a first floor window, I make my way to the upper room to rest for the night. I’m fed up with the loneliness of the HMS Penelope, the claustrophobia of life at sea. I’ve not seen you for years, your last words laced with vitriol at the altar. This loveless limbo is my reward for walking away on that sunlit morning.

midnight chimes
the dull echo
of the stairs

The thing that emerges from the doorway is a dark, indefinable shape. Shocked, I’m unable to move as it pollutes the air with its hideous aroma. Released from paralysis by the sound of a nightingale outside, I escape through the window; the path to the door blocked by the shape.

letting go
drops of blood
on a railing spike