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A Haunted House by Virginia Wolf.
Whatever hour you woke, there was a

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door shutting from room to room.
There went hand in hand, lifting here,

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opening there, making sure a ghostly
couple here we left it, she

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said, and he added, Oh, but here too. It's upstairs,

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she murmured, And in the garden
he whispered quietly. They said, Or

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we shall wake them. But it
wasn't that you woke us. Oh no,

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they're looking for it. They're drawing
the curtain, one might say,

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and so read on a page or
two. Now they've found it, one

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would be certain, stopping the pencil
on the margin. And then, tired

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of reading, one might rise and
see for one's self the house all empty,

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the doors standing open, only the
wood pigeons bubbling with content, and

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the hum of the threshing machine sounding
from the farm. What did I come

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in here for? What did I
want to find? My hands are empty.

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Perhaps it's upstairs. Then the apples
were in the loft, and so

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down again, the garden still as
ever, only the book had slipped into

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the grass. But they had found
it in the drawing room, not that

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one could ever see them. The
window panes reflected apples reflected roses. All

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the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room,

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the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after,

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if the door was opened, spread
about the floor, hung upon the walls,

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pinned it from the ceiling. What
my hands were empty. The shadow

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of a thrush crossed the carpet.
From the deepest wells of silence. The

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wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound, safe, safe, Safe. The

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pulse of the house beat softly.
The treasure buried the room. The pulse

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stopped short. Oh, was that
the buried treasure. A moment later the

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light had faded out in the garden. Then, but the trees spun darkness

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for a wandering beam of sun,
so fine, so rare, coolly sunk

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beneath the surface the beam I saw
it always burnt behind the glass. Death

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was the glass. Death was between
us coming to the woman first hundreds of

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years ago, leaving the house,
sealing all the windows, the rooms were

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darkened. He left it, left
her, went north, went east,

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saw the stars turned in the southern
sky. Sought the house, found it

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dropped beneath the downs. Safe safe
Safe. The pulse of the house beat

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gladly the treasure yours. The wind
roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and

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bend this way and that. Moonbeams
splash and spill wild in the rain,

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but the beam of the lamp falls
straight from the window. The candle burns,

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stiff and still, wandering through the
house, opening the windows, whispering

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not to wake us. The ghostly
couple seek their joy here we slept,

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she says, and he adds kisses
without number, waking in the morning,

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silver between the trees upstairs in the
garden. When summer came in winter snow

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time, the doors go shutting far
in the distance, gently knocking like the

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pulse of a heart. Nearer they
come cease at the doorway. The wind

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falls, the rain slides silver down
the glass. Our eyes darken. We

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hear no steps behind us, We
see no ladies. Spread her ghostly cloak,

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His hands shield the lantern. Look. He breathes sound to sleep,

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love upon their lips, stooping,
holding their silver lamp above us. Long

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they look in, deeply, long
they pause. The wind drives straightly,

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the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams
of moonlight cross both floor and wall,

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and meeting stain the faces bent,
the faces pondering, the faces that search

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the sleepers and seek their hidden joy. Safe, Safe, Safe. The

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heart of the house beats proudly.
Long years, he says again, you

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found me here, she murmurs,
sleeping in the garden, reading, laughing,

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rolling apples in the loft. Here
we left our treasure, stooping.

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Their light lifts the lids upon my
eyes. Safe, Safe, Safe.

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The pulse of the house beat.
It's wildly waking. I cry, Oh,

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is this your buried treasure? The
light in the heart and of a

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haunted house.