Hidden

I propose turning the key useless to conceal from you that strange things take place it used to ring of its own accord chair by the window and the door closed saw the curtain detach falling when I weary of looking, something is bound to appear walking backwards she is frightened by the sound but cannot describe it the face vanishes, the hands remain white arms beneath fearful drapery looking out, over the hill I burn it, it distills a dark mucus curtain wrenched away a gossamer veil, as it seems resembling, yet most unlike her armless chair, handless cup sloping downwards to the base of the hill momentary grasp around her ankle an old-fashioned house a narrow lane on a declivity