He sold them all—he imagined—
authentic, Indian burial ground—horror movie stuff.
He sold it faster than he could buy it back—
hawking land and vanishing on young couples and old couples
romancing for cheap land
determinately dusty, sagging to one side,
and only a few hours commute on a dirt road.
Not heaven, not even close, but standing.
He pulled onto the freeway, sadly afraid of the hauntings in earnest,
of blood in the dirt which would eventually reach the porch steps
and the stone kitchen.
They never stayed long—those people—
their courage sapped,
telling no one
and leaving without compensation and malevolence.