Black as a cave down here
until you reach
the Bakelite switch.
Weak bulb reveals a pile of velvet curtains.
Stage-lights that get dragged out for the Christmas plays.
Wooden swords, shields. Wigs. Old-time coats and trousers.
Amongst this peculiar paraphernalia,
a perfect place for an illicit cigarette.
Footsteps crossing the hall. A scraping sound, a bang.
Is that the sound of the trap-door being opened?
No. The darkness remains uninterrupted.
But why then, are the hairs on the back of your neck beginning to rise?