Haunted houses stir with the falling leaves, but in truth they never sleep.
They lurk.
As the windows crust with scaly frost and snow creeps over the ground.
They watch.
As mama birds stab wriggling worms into gaping, voracious mouths.
They leer.
As bare skin bubbles beneath a searing, uncompromising heat.
They rouse.
As the skies grow cool and the trees drip off their leaves.
Gravestones spend more time in the dark.
Houses are always awake.
Horror Fiction by Rose Arcadia 