Anadiplosis + Haunted Houses

ana·​di·​plo·​sis: repetition of a prominent and usually the last word in one phrase or clause at the beginning of the next (as in "rely on his honor—honor such as his?")

With the grip of a chamber pot descending the stairs. Stairs two stories high keeled even and solid wood. Wood stained such a deep brown you would be hard pressed to scuff even an edge. Even, an edge, I stand on enthralled with this little chateau and ready to destroy every board. Every board knew me when I stepped in from the wilderness of the world and now would creak a soft whisper in my ear before my step would come down.

—

Every board knew me when I stepped in from the wilderness, into the house. the house would creak in anticipation of my next move before even I knew that I was taking a step. Steps broke up every room, one up or one down to get between the rooms. Rooms, so many, crammed into this little chateau, getting to know me in an endless way. Way up on the second story an open shutter whacked the side of the house, pulling back in a big swing, inhaling, and saying my name. Name.. my name… I grip the bannister, unable to count the steps as I ascend.

—

Inside the walls know the hairs on my arms, standing them on edge in the hallway. Hallways bending and turning, taking me nowhere. Nowhere, no rooms that meant anything but they suck me in. In is the only place I can be with this house, even the windows look out to repeating nothing.

(eehh this is all pretty abstract and not concrete enough)

—

Each board creaked my name. My name, my name, lost somewhere in the corner of the second floor bathroom tiles. Tiles you cannot follow, in patterns you cannot discern, looping themselves into spaced cracks in the wall. Walls that you cannot follow to a door.