The Memories

You can still hear the whispers right now if you listen,
A rustle of old decrative tissue paper,
Or the sound of a knife hitting velvet lined surfaces.
And always the never ending windchime crackle that lifts the hairs of the back of a dog's neck.
They like to keep house in photographs,
Which is why there are less of them now.
But they're still there,
Eyes burning into the back of your head as you look the other way,
A twich on your arm in the night when you though it was just your hair falling to the side as you toss and turn because you can't shake the feeling your being watched.
A quiet living room with the TV muted as you try to breathe deeply,
But something quite like dust suffocates you,
Inabling you to breathe.
A musty smell you knew wasn't part of your room seeping into the walls.
Whispers you hear the when you put your ear to the pillow and the second you take lift your head,
They're gone.
Going through your family's old boxes in the basement you might come across a photo album,
If you see the eyes of a long forgotten family member who you never remembered meeting move,
Shut the book imeadietly.
Otherwise it's to late.
And who knows what will happen then...