Off to the gingerbread house we go
On this fine fall day.
The country road yawns before us,
Pointing the way with pebbled arms.
Shana is laughing up a storm,
Similar to the one building around us.
Swirling gusts lead us by the hand
To a cottage made not by man.
The house floats in a dewy gauze of its own,
Shielded from any attacks or storms.
It glistens and shimmers in the fading light
As we draw closer to its unfailing might.
The front door opens at our approach,
An extended arm our only invitation.
I want to leave but Shana says,
"Linda, let's see who lives inside."
Before I could answer she walks in,
Leaving me alone in the dying day.
Pebbles unearth themselves in my direction
Until I'm forced to seek shelter from the storm.
An older couple wait for us inside,
Wearing clothes from days long gone.
They show us around their unusual home,
Where rooms are shrines to their grown children.
We are led to the attic to find a lone rocking chair,
Facing the forest and deserted country road.
The woman explains they are The Watchers,
Watching over the town for errant vampires.
My ears are ringing and my heart is pounding
As I listen to her words in disbelief.
She says there's always a Watcher in the rocking chair
As the chair begins to rock on its own.
We flee the scene of our worst nightmare,
Determined never to return to this awful place.
We don't know whether to believe her story,
But the chair did begin to rock in its place.
Our games have just begun.
THE DEAD GAME
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