Snedeker House, Connecticut — The Haunting in Connecticut
by Dawg
In the hush of Connecticut, frostbitten ground wears the mark of sorrow’s root,
a house stands at the crossroads, facade cracked beneath perpetual dusk’s pursuit.
Once a parlor for the embalmed–each slab and chair remembers grief–
mortician’s laughter woven in the dust, embalming fluid steeped in every floorboard.
Windows stare out, unblinking, across desolate yards where ivy claws the pane,
night gathers beneath broken shingles, whispering the sins of the stained terrain.
Walls bear the history of wake and weeping, soft thuds from the other side,
cold as the lips of the recently dead, secrets ferment where shadows collide.
A flicker of lamplight reveals bone-white fingers drumming patterns on the molding,
while children’s toys, abandoned in corners, jitter and spin–rituals unfolding.
Mirrors do not merely reflect, they fracture–
revealing fragments of spectral memory,
a mortuary’s silent chorus, chanting sorrow, rehearsing ancient ceremony.
In the cellar, echoes spiral in ceaseless descent,
where corpses once cooled in the earth’s embrace,
strange odors seep from the seams, cloying rot that clings to the living’s face.
Voices seep through the vents–thin and pitiless,
“Remember what the undertaker said.”
The living lie sleepless, their dreams harvested and hung in glass jars,
every knock and shriek a summons, every shadow a map of invisible scars.
Hope is quartered by dread, faith battered by nocturnal blows,
in the grip of something ancient–a hunger that only the bravest know.
Still, the house listens, patient and starved, clutching the names of those who fled,
letting its story unspool, stitch by stitch, binding the future to the dread.
The Snedeker House stands, a mausoleum draped in the tatters of denial,
here, the dead do not sleep, and the living cannot rest–
a funeral home’s legacy–fear given shape, trauma confessed.