Home Is Where The Horror Is
A house stands upon a shady hill
That sounds much like a ghastly mill
Where echoes of ground bones occupy the streets
And the char of skulls fill all its bed sheets
And at night when the town slumbers aloof
An unknown figure stands peeking from its roof
Who appears at the rapid flick of its finger
And exits to bring malice like a harbringer
Rarely do people venture in this eerie place
Except wandering children and those of grace
Who enter the retreat with some hope of shelter
But their bodies are found all over helter skelter
Like little Suzy who ran quite far in deft
While playing hide and seek, blind and heft
Until she locked eyes with the figure so revolting
That sent her soul screaming and bolting
And of the menial farmer Bruce who tended sheep
One that wandered in its gardens to sleep
But old Bruce died of an unknown danger
They found him dead, his heart alone in the manger
And of the mayor who wanted to appear so proud
By arguing no ghosts did reside or could be found
Slept in the moors for a night to affirm his claims
Until he was found stripped and dead with a dame
No one shares the truth behind the house
Infested with numerous pests and louse
That the municipality ordered for a demolition
Until the workers were found at the grounds of cremation
Do not be fooled by its peaceful and facsimile exteriors
For an inexplicable force runs within it, quite ulterior