Oh, that’s just how old houses are. They settle. They sometimes creak or groan, or quietly weep, or demand blood sacrifice in voices that sounds like the fluttering wings of a thousand moths. It’s just the house settling. For whatever it can get. Go back to sleep.
I am trying to sleep you fascinating menace
so am I, the house whispers, yet you infest my skin, you sweat and dream within the wooden chambers of my heart, a frail, soft jonah I did not consent to swallow, and to which god then shall you pray for release, when all my doors are gone? you fear the dark, little moth, and yet you have locked yourself within a blackness lacking even stars. I was void, but you gave me substance; and who is to say where your soul goes, when you sleep within me? who is to say I do not replace it, do not weave you into my walls and wear your borrowed shell? when daylight comes, all shadows flee but those we carry with us.
wake, then, and see what you cast.