the house of whirlwinds and rainstorms

here lies the house you dreamt up as you were reading folklore

just like the girls growing up here, collecting daisies and trying to catch the sunlight

as they competed for the dirtiest dress and the best kind of princesses

that much preferred history pages and embers over glass slippers or true love’s kisses

they were here first, before the rainstorms and the whirlwinds happened

they were here first, wandering the halls pretending the glitter on their face was pixie dust

and the freckles on their wrists were constellations

they were here first, but they left the fairy lights for you

they left the daisies carved in the front porch railings for you

and the hollow tree behind the swing still cherishes their drawings

just like the rose bushes still hold onto their lost hair ribbons and long forgotten tears

the luscious garden a gorgeous kingdom just large enough for their secrets

and for the stories they wish were in their books

the story goes that the butterflies atop the driveway gate were the girls’ idea

the story goes that the house wasn’t theirs, that they were travelers desperate for a home

the story goes that they were sisters, not by blood but by stars

the story goes that the ivy climbing the walls and windows of the mansion

could no longer be tamed once their epilogue came to an end

people say that once the girls learned there was no Neverland

that the midnight hour was an actual monster, that losing your voice was not just fantasy,

that poison did in fact come in sweet, that beauty could be cruel,

that happily ever after was a fight rather than a given victory,

it was as if a rainstorm broke loose and never stopped

but maybe that wasn’t the girls’ fault

maybe they were just the ghosts that predicted what was to come

come inside the gate, walk the driveway

the neighbors live a million little worlds away, telling their own stories of this place

as they sip tea so sweet it makes you wonder what all the sugar in the world is meant to hide

stories that are a thousand dimensions away from the actual truth, if such a thing even exists

come now, ring the bell of the olive door as you are bewildered by primroses

listen carefully to the sound of cats meowing and wings rustling

that almost overshadows the soft tingling like wind bells that make your heart tingle

come inside, enter the hallway with constellations decorating the mauve wallpapers

rumor has it the female assassin woman who lived here painted them herself

she turned the library into an armory and the parlor into a room filled with gowns and frocks

after buying the house from the notorious roaring twenties socialite for whom it was a palace

but oh well, that’s just the rumors

let those mauve constellations catch your every heartstring

as you stand on your tiptoes on the scarlet carpet studying the paintings of wonderland

that are said to be drawn by the apocalyptionist couple living here after the murderess’ downfall

come, proceed, the tour only lasts an hour

take a look at the stunning vinyl player in rouge and lavender that will make you feel

as if you are in a butterfly kaleidoscope

some say it belonged to the notorious socialite

some say it was stolen by the villainous woman who supposedly ate hearts she cut out of bodies

others say it was the last gift the woman who always wore cardigans got from her boyfriend

that night he admitted to cheating on her all summer long at her graduation party

he stood on the front porch of this very house, naïve enough to still believe in a true love’s kiss

that would patch it all up

but word is she just took the vinyl player and shut the door in his face

come, this house has a magnificent thirteen rooms

in the color palette of a storybook

close your eyes, don’t be shy

inhale the scent of rosé-perfumed memories and freshly baked cinnamon rolls

sweet tea greeted by epiphany sunlight and garden beets cooking

Sunday afternoon candles and Monday evening cocktails

take a close look at all the spice racks and recipe books in the kitchen

you can see the sepia photos and love letters sticking out, half lost, half never meant to be found

listen to the soft indie music playing on the rouge vinyl, take a look around

at the tea leaves drying and the apple sauce stewing

as you catch glimpses of a telescope and a typewriter on the back porch

and remember the front porch with the fairy lights and jars filled with ocean rubble

remember the rocking bench and the painting supplies

the back porch was for the happy memories, but the front porch holds the scars of broken hearts

the promise of a happy ending crumbling as the boy who risked it all left empty-handed

the loneliness after a day full of people, as the notorious socialite was left alone

the darkness of a woman so scorned she ferociously screamed into the void for an apocalypse

the woman standing on the doorstep of her most infamous murder

that same woman curling up on the porch steps clutching a blooded knife,

hands shaking for the first time in her life

oh well, that is just how the stories go, there’s no telling the truth really

moving on, make your way to the drawing room

where two cats sleep in blush armchairs, one tabby named Ella, one grey called Cinder

from here, feel free to enter the breathtaking observatory

where young papillons prepare to take flight as doves and bluebirds sing you a song

and don’t forget the library, which holds every fairytale ever written, both cruel and pretty

these too were left here for you by the two girls who started it all, savoring every single story

run your finger along every history page ever forgotten, every dream ever conquered

and realize that it was the woman called wicked by many collected them with her bare hands

priding herself in bottling the starlight of a life envied by many, spinning twisted tales of her own

remember to visit the attic, where you will find crescent moons and faded canvasses

as the remains of a world ending while the earth kept on travelling around the sun just the same

take a peek into every bedroom: they all have their own lipstick secrets and vintage myths

just like the theatre where, as whispers say, the notorious socialite spent her final hours

desperately trying to get lost in a world of sunken secrets much like her own

do make sure to skip the gallery of ghost stories, though,

for it will haunt you all the way to the manor’s other wing

the tales of names buried, faces covered and blood shed for absolutely no reason at all

will draw tears from your deepest cores

and please, fiercely walk past the museum of open books in the south wing

perhaps it was the cardigan girl, or the notorious socialite, or the vile assassin,

but one of those women, you know, had a strange relationship with endings

for she never could let go of what was long gone

take your time walking the corridors

and imagine, just imagine, the voices, the footsteps echoing, the rustling of dresses

the silhouettes, the brushes of rosé-perfumed memories

imagine the kingdom of ‘’what if’’ and ‘’if only’’ and ‘’could have been’’ inside these walls

imagine the stories of moments, seconds behind the portraits gracing the staircase

imagine that you can hear a rainstorm tearing this house apart

imagine the windows shattering, the door break, imagine the roof collapse

imagine the ivy, the willow trees, the rose branches desperately growing into all the rooms

trying to protect the stories of their kingdom

imagine the thunder in the attic, of all the times the world ended without ending

imagine the lightning striking on the front porch

every time the assassin woman’s knife ignited a fire in her own eyes

imagine the kitchen, the parlor, the library and the observatory flooding

taking away everything like all the women of this house once lost everything

imagine an earthquake running through all the fairytale books and secret garden spots

terrifying the fireflies and chasing away the young butterflies not yet ready to grow up

just like those two girls with whom it all started, who had to grow up before their time

imagine the whirlwind that tore illusions to pieces so many times

imagine the hurricane picking up the pieces that could never make something whole again

imagine the eclipse darkening everything like all the times the sun went down on the daylight

imagine a sky full of stars coming down on the house to take back their constellations

imagine a cyclone ripping the house apart,

like all the words, minds, hearts and souls that were ripped apart here

imagine secrets floating out onto the driveway and out the gate

imagine truths flying out of burst windows into the garden and beyond

imagine the dimension between true and false finding a way into the universe

imagine the flood waves bringing along every brittle bit, every piece of paper

and leaving it on the streets, like ashes ready for erosion

imagine all the whirlwinds, tornadoes, thunders, rainstorms, earthquakes and hurricanes

imagine all the floods, fires, lightnings and apocalypses breaking down this house’s every inch

like the stories of those who lived here were broken down by each and every inch

until every shout, every scream, every whisper, every word was silenced, hushed, muffled

and left to folklore’s mercy

they still haunt this house today

the age of their era is never-ending

so, as you take one last look over your shoulder before stepping out on that front porch again

remember; this is the house you dreamt up

while reading folklore

but it could only ever be a home

to ghosts and their stories


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *