THE OLD HOUSE

The old house stands alone,

dark and deserted,

on the overgrown lawn.

A wind rustles through the fallen leaves.

The only sound in the dead silence.

No footsteps to break the quiet.

No sounds of life to lift the spirits.

Only the dead for company.

Their spirits walk the house.

No footsteps to break the quiet.

For the dead don’t leave footprints.

END HOUSE

sean-o-neill-photography

It welcomes. 

It creaks.

It sighs.

Its door opens.

Candlelight streams out.

We peak inside.

Grim faces stare back.

Gargoyles stand sentinel

along the curving staircase.

A wind brushes our skin

with its unseen fingers.

Candles light the way

down the right hall.

Shadows move and sway

with the flickering candles.

The door locks behind us.

We’re in for the ride.

End House has spoken.

THE DEAD GAME

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THE GATES

whitechapelwitch:

>>x<<

Hidden fears.
Hidden desires.
They ring loud and true.
Deep within the gates,
Within the walls of the old house,
Lies remnants of the past.
Haunting thoughts.
Haunting feelings.
Trapped inside.
Don’t let them out.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE

Would you take the dare to
spend the night in an old house?
A house rumored to be haunted.
One with old furniture, dark hallways,
and creaky sounds.
I would.
I would lie on the bed with
my eyes open all night,
waiting for ghosts,
listening to the sounds
of an old house.
Who knows?
Maybe a spirit or two would appear.
Or maybe a wind would move the
curtains in a room with locked
windows and doors.
Would a dead body show up in the morning?
I’ll be waiting.