Guestbook In Pencil
By M. Allshouse
No guests tonight—
just haunted stairwells
and distraught specters
screaming agony
that sounds more like
deafening silence.
This bed and breakfast is quaint,
but no one stays long.
The rooms still shudder
from poltergeist tantrums,
unseen traumas
leaving everything icy.
Cold.
Did you want to book a room?
The halls echo with longing.
Listen too closely,
and the ghosts might try
to make you stay.
You want the honeymoon suite?
The heart of this house?
I’m sorry—
it’s been rented by grief.
Indefinitely.
You nodded politely
As though I didn't know
You didn't care what room you had
You'd take a tour
But then leave me vacant
Alone
I passed you the keys
knowing full well you'd return them hastily—
opting for a single bed
on the outskirts of my mind.
I told you it was the presidential suite.
But if you saw the real one,
No hesitation–
you'd surely decline.
It’s cluttered with corpses—
the kind created inside.
Tragedy leaves this house tortured,
but housekeeping hopes you’re blind.
Don’t mind the creaks and rattles.
It’s just the house settling.
It’s not used to letting
anyone stay and still breathe.
Just write your name
in the guestbook.
In pencil.
Please.
It’ll be easier
when you inevitably flee.
Guestbook In Pencil
By M. Allshouse
No guests tonight—
just haunted stairwells
and distraught specters
screaming agony
that sounds more like
deafening silence.
This bed and breakfast is quaint,
but no one stays long.
The rooms still shudder
from poltergeist tantrums,
unseen traumas
leaving everything icy.
Cold.
Did you want to book a room?
The halls echo with longing.
Listen too closely,
and the ghosts might try
to make you stay.
You want the honeymoon suite?
The heart of this house?
I’m sorry—
it’s been rented by grief.
Indefinitely.
You nodded politely
As though I didn't know
You didn't care what room you had
You'd take a tour
But then leave me vacant
Alone
I passed you the keys
knowing full well you'd return them hastily—
opting for a single bed
on the outskirts of my mind.
I told you it was the presidential suite.
But if you saw the real one,
No hesitation–
you'd surely decline.
It’s cluttered with corpses—
the kind created inside.
Tragedy leaves this house tortured,
but housekeeping hopes you’re blind.
Don’t mind the creaks and rattles.
It’s just the house settling.
It’s not used to letting
anyone stay and still breathe.
Just write your name
in the guestbook.
In pencil.
Please.
It’ll be easier
when you inevitably flee.