Number 75

There’s a house in every childhood. The place we shouldn’t go. The bogey man. The witch. The weirdo with the twitch.

Crimes unsaid. But hinted at.

‘Just you stay well away!’

The garden is always untended because only the normal love to prune. Sneaking out from sleepovers children dare to open the rusted gate. Double dared to peep in a window. Triple dared to ring the doorbell.

I hear them. See the disproving stares as parents pass. Play along with curtains pulled, not letting my mystery out. Although actually I’m just writing and not responsible for their bloody missing cat.

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