Yesterday, I received a letter—
one that bore my name.
I don’t recall sending it,
though it’s written in my hand.

It spoke of distant places
my feet have never trod,
of unknown people—
strangers,
merely shadows scratched in ink.

Of dreamscapes shaped from
nonsense riddles,
and nightmares I’ve yet to live,
where the light of love
was interred—
buried deep within
earth damp with darkness.

And at the end, a warning—
so filled with mystery and dread—
that it carved an icy tract
through the marrow of my spine.

But curiosity,
that macabre fiend,
finally prevailed.
And under morbid fury,
I went out to the garden shed
and returned
with an ax.

With maddened blows,
a demented din
afflicted my living room
as I tore apart the wood
that kept me from
what was hidden beyond.

Splinters flew
with every crash,
blood burning in my chest,
while ragged wails and curses
heaved from my throat.

Until finally—
from the hollow,
a scent—
the foul breath of the dead
arose from within,
and I retched.

I crumbled
beneath the horror,
cowering on the floor,
until I heard
the faintest whisper—
and I looked inside.

And now I remain,
still on this floor.
My well of tears
long run dry,
my mangled voice
jagged and raw
from shrieking
through the night.

I keep reading—
reading this accursed letter,
and its warning:

Do not look beneath the floorboards.

©️2025 David Cornetta