We watched the house burn, holding hands. For years we talked about its history. A psycho father kills his family, hangs himself. Every other family moves in, stays awhile, abruptly leaves. The house sat on the grounds of either a prison cemetery, a typhoid-ravaged boarding school, or an abandoned psychiatric hospital. We watched the flames, screaming demons eating oxygen. I stare, transfixed, think I see silhouettes, black snakes of smoke moving uphill through bare trees. We’ve come here since childhood, stealing kisses in the shadows. We don’t believe in this stuff. You clutch my hand, won’t let us leave.