Loved, something that I was. It was something that somebody was to me. Until we drifted. Well, until she killed me. She held me tight, I didn't see the dagger slip from her sleeve. I thought I was loved, but I was wrongly mistaken. So now I watch, from the hallway windows, waiting for the creaking stairs.

I watch her sleep, her untroubled face curling into her hair. I try desperately to warn every guy what is coming. Yet, sooner or later they join me. They watch along with me. One hides from the tubs water, one is screaming. I always beg him to be quiet, but he isn't. One refuses to eat, scared of what is in the food. One won't go into the room, and one refuses to watch anything.

We once knew our names, but what are they? We've lost them through the passage. Every time there's another one we try to call them something. I keep on feeling an ache in my stomach, it's always bleeding but what can I do? How can I fix it?

I peer through the walls, watching her. I can't remember her name. I can't hear what she's saying. How long has it been? How long has she been walking the halls with me? How long ago did her ghost kill me? Why is this house always out for blood lust?

When Sorrow comes to visit, he doesn’t take off his shoes. Dragging and tracking mud from outside to every room in the house. He doesn't even pretend to wipe his feet at the welcome mat before entering. With each visit, his clothes become shabbier and his hands filthier. He always announces and apologizes that he can’t stay for long, he has others to visit. I always suggest water, but he prefers tea. Taking longer to prepare and prolonging his stay. We always listen to Etta while the tea is being made. I’m not ever sure when he’ll leave, some visits are more extended than others. No matter how long the stay, you can always tell he was here. The longer he stays, the more dirt and mud build up on the floor. The more smudges and streaks upon the wall. Even long after he’s gone and I’ve polished the floorboards and purified the walls, there’s still stains that he left behind. Forget-me-nots proving he was once here. Before he goes, he'll turn to me and say I should be grateful I’ve only got to scrub mud from the floors and trail a rag against the walls. If he were to take off his shoes, it would be far more mess to clean.