Resounding Spectres
The wind shuts doors in this house, taps on window pannels and shakes eaves from old roof tins. Through the whole day, in the most unespected moments, you can hear the sudden lashing of wood against entrances and exits, claiming for the attention of some inhabitant in the hot torpor of silent evenings. Everything wails, everything yields despair and gnashes teeth through the tortured structure of its rooms. Even in the quietness of the night you can hear it breathing rhythmically, as an old, dying woman with its pallid, whistling panting. Wounded by the inclement weather, its most intimate atoms cast steamy moans with the shape of a word or a name.
Hey!, creaks an echo in the darkness, and the dying filament of its resonance startles sleep, leaving it to an uneasy wakefulness, crowded by indecipherable rustles and whispers diluted into the shadows. There they settle down, lurking in the ledges of the night, among bays and joints, so that the silence can bring back to them the word snatched by the frantic hustle of days. Wrapped in the sleepless darkness, the lattice of its woods quivers as dusty vocal strings, splintering names, subtle warnings and inscrutable immemorial verbs.
From the veins of its foundations until the arteries of its higher lintels shudder under the resonance of elements and seasons. You can hear a frail swallowing undermining its resistances, slow and relentlessly, as larvae of memory crushing remembrances, shredding echoes that are scattered through corridors and landings, settling among the skin of things and the rinds of a life that never remains voiceless.
https://searingwords.wordpress.com/2023/02/16/resounding-spectres/
