McRaven House, Mississippi — Mississippi’s Haunt
by Dawg
Deep where the kudzu strangles the fence and the hush never lifts,
McRaven sits in stillness, holding centuries in its fists.
White columns lean with exhaustion, wood swollen from the flood,
porches groan at midnight–shadows thick as blood.
Every window reflects the memory of faces now erased,
curtains twitch at nothing, dust glows in moonlit waste.
A creak in the stairwell–maybe floorboards settling blame,
maybe feet from other centuries, ghosts that never learned their names.
The air is sweet with honeysuckle and rotten with decay,
in the parlor, the laughter of the dead is just a whisper away.
Footsteps slip down hallways where light will never go,
specters in hoop skirts hover, gliding soft and slow.
Walls seep old stories–stolen kisses, jealous fights,
a cradle creaks by itself through Mississippi nights.
Murder once dined at the table, grief wore a wedding gown,
history never cleaned the stains–just pressed them further down.
The garden murmurs fever–white roses growing wild,
some say a mother still weeps for her fever-stricken child.
A soldier stomps in boots, angry at his final breath,
you hear the rattle of his saber–he’s never made his peace with death.
Twilight stitches secrets, thick as magnolia scent,
and restless hands rearrange regrets that won’t relent.
Spectral faces blink from mirrors, mouths stretched in surprise,
women wail in silence, men sob without disguise.
Listen as the moonlight fingers every warped windowpane,
hear the hush of promises–love, betrayal, pain.
You’ll carry McRaven with you, a chill beneath your skin,
haunted by what lingers, haunted by what’s been.
Mississippi’s haunt is legend, its shadows thick and true–
a southern house that never sleeps, and never lets go of you.