They buried her wrong.

Too shallow.

Too soon.

Eyes still open.

Mouth full of dirt,

but not enough to keep her quiet.

You hear her now.

In the crawlspace.

In the drain.

In the lull between thunder and breath.

She doesn’t scratch.

She taps.

One for no.

Two for yes.

Three when she’s standing behind you.

You thought it was a dream—

that thing in the corner

with your mother’s voice

and too many joints in its arms.

But it knew your name

before you were born.

Even the dead tell stories.

But hers is not a story.

It’s a warning.

It’s a hunger.

It’s a list of names

and yours is circled in red.

You lock every door,

but the walls remember the shape of her.

The attic breathes with her lungs.

The floorboards lean toward your bed

when you sleep.

She doesn’t want peace.

She wants inside.

And every time you blink—

you let her closer