I remember her house on 58th Street,
always dark, always black curtains,
the smell of mothballs and cobwebs
seeping through the door.
Some said she was a witch.
Some said her children had died.
Some said a boy had gone missing
and was locked in her closet.
We never knew if it was true.
She had a dog, Boy Dog,
scruffy, growling, lurking by the porch.
In autumn, walking home from school,
I’d get up the nerve and pass her house,
sometimes catching her in the upstairs window,
all in black, watching, smiling.
One afternoon, we knocked on her door,
heart hammering, voices shaking.
She answered, said she needed to grab her sweater.
She came back out, hands empty, eyes wide.
“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do,” she said,
raising her hands and walking toward us.
We ran, heart pounding,
like we were trying out for the track team.
And sometimes, just sometimes,
I wonder if she was laughing,
or crying, or both.
Mar 6
Mar 6, 2026 at 4:14 PM UTC
I remember her house on 58th Street,
always dark, always black curtains,
the smell of mothballs and cobwebs
seeping through the door.
Some said she was a witch.
Some said her children had died.
Some said a boy had gone missing
and was locked in her closet.
We never knew if it was true.
She had a dog, Boy Dog,
scruffy, growling, lurking by the porch.
In autumn, walking home from school,
I’d get up the nerve and pass her house,
sometimes catching her in the upstairs window,
all in black, watching, smiling.
One afternoon, we knocked on her door,
heart hammering, voices shaking.
She answered, said she needed to grab her sweater.
She came back out, hands empty, eyes wide.
“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do,” she said,
raising her hands and walking toward us.
We ran, heart pounding,
like we were trying out for the track team.
And sometimes, just sometimes,
I wonder if she was laughing,
or crying, or both.
