Janna Miller

Nazi ghost houses roam the countryside, setting up bars and brothels. Come in, come in, they say. You do not know us, you do not remember, we have been here before. This door your grandmother passed through. Your great uncle. We have good beer.

Nazi ghost houses are not cold, but warm to the touch, flaming even, where portal windows reflect midday sun. If a hand were to open the sash and reach through, it would appear as grainy as cellulose film. Shadows from inside do not pass through.

Nazi ghost houses bully other architecture, the ones resting on the earth with brick and cinderblock risers. They use good bones for support, climbing on barns filled with moldy hay lofts and tobacco rafters. Ghost brackets sink their teeth in, sucking in the cartilage of joists. Sounding like mice with straws.

Nazi ghost houses play ghost music in ghost halls. They wait: for the uber left off at the wrong stop, raining, no other place to spend the night, one bed for all. Drawn to the music, the familiar door, the curve of the bannister. Come in, they say. You don’t remember. We have good beer.