Boards warped. Coming up in some places. Cracks. Holes. Old wood that was never sealed.

Dust on windows. Curtains tattered and torn. Heating vents no longer blowing air. A rooster crows.

He sits on a milk crate turned upside down. Beer bottles lined up on the mantle; Old Style, Miller Genuine Draft, Black Label. Some have cigarette butts in them. Others just urine left from long ago. He often contemplates drinking the warm piss. Or pouring it over a cut. There’s magical power in piss, he says. Vikings used it to heal wounds. He goes on. Cleans the blood. It’s antiseptic, he says to a ghost.

The ghost nods. Sits down beside the old man with rotting teeth. Crumbs from month old bread are in his beard. Mold.

There’s no way I’m leaving. He tells the banshee. This is my home, he says quietly. Raised a family here. Had a wife. A couple of kids; a boy and a girl. She used to comb their hair before they went to school. A big yellow bus took them every day. My wife made sack lunches for the kids. Peanut butter and honey were their favorite. They liked pickle loaf, too. A bag of potato chips.

No. I’m not going anywhere. He said. I’ll die here and stay in this house forever.

Just like me, said the banshee. I’ve been here all along. A hundred years. My screams have been silent.

I never noticed you before, the old man said.

You weren’t looking.