Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25458443-20180123121121

This is a massively edited version of a story I wrote before.

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At the dark strike of midnight, whilst dead in my bed,

I had heard, very faintly, just under my my head,

In a whispery voice, speaking sharply, it said,

"It's under the floorboards."

In alarm I reproach through the darkness to stare,

And I say, "Who has spoken? Is anyone there?"

And I stay in my bed, though I stay unaware,

Of what's under the floorboards.

Such a new, old estate, I had not slept before,

So I knew there was scarcely a way to be sure,

If in fact there were anything down in the floors,

Buried deep in the floorboards.

But I silence myself, and I laugh at my mind,

For I know there is certainly nothing to find,

When a whispery voice from the wind does remind,

"It's under the floorboards."

In a moment of anger, I say, "Go away!"

Though I know it is only my mind, that the way

I was acting was surely an intimate trick,

so burning like wax 'neath the wick.

At the dark strike of dawn, I awake from my death,

When I feel, very softly, more soft than a breath,

Just a hair, poking outward, from under my dress,

And under the floorboards, its smell does possess. 