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An Empty House at Night

by Cristel Hastings

published in WEIRD TALES, April 1935

Quiet enough at noon among its trees

And weed-grown paths that slumber in the sun,

The empty house seems settled back at ease

Watching the gray years drift by, one by one.

Here bees may drone and plunder at their will

In gardens long forgotten—here a bird

May twitter under eaves where all is still

And somnolent—where never voice is heard.

But let night come!—the old house is ALIVE

With sound and motion with each wind that sighs!

An empty house at night becomes a hive

Of creeping monsters with a thousand eyes.

Each leaf that falls is like a giant’s stride

Across a roof velvet with moss and mold—

Here settling timbers creak—here dragons hide

To slither from their attics, queerly bold.

The empty rooms are peopled in the gloom

With hordes of shapeless, voiceless ghosts that roam

Through doors and windows and from room to room

Of this lone place that once was known as Home.

Winds weep and wail the long nights through—old doors

Move back and forth propelled by unseen hands

On hinges long unused—along the floors

Sly forms may stalk the boards in fearsome bands.

Huge spiders spin their curtains, gray and wide,

On grimy windows shutting out the light

For fear some passer-by may see inside

The ghostly things that haunt the place at night.