That House...And Its Secrets Poem by Shaun Cronick

There are many stories about that house.
Many stories.
Many myths.
Many legends.
All dark.
All true.
I live close by,
Longer than I can remember.
People like you come to view it.
And like you they ask me about the murders.
And the slain.
Especially the slain.
Yeah.
Those terrible murders.
Only one escaped that night.
And she was mad.
Mad as a hatter.
She had bitten off her own tongue.
Probably at the séance they held.
Pitifully trying to run away.
Completely blind.
Her eyes torn out.
Covered in blood.
No!
Drenched in blood.
Not hers.
The blood from other nine,
Paranormal investigators.
I saw their bodies.
Or what was left of them.
When they were carried out.
They never found her tongue or her eyes.
I'll never forget that night.
Such cruelty.
Such fury.
And such hate.
God they were so young.
All of them.
And of that poor girl who escaped.
She's residing in a mental asylum.
A padded cell so she can't harm herself.
A grad student.
And her name was Hope.
Sweet Jesus!
Hope!
She was so pretty.
A real looker.
The police never caught,
Or charged anybody.
Because nobody did it.
Nobody human of course.
It was that place.
That house.
And its secrets.
I will never go past,
It's gates ever again.
Not for all the tea in China.
The gates are locked anyway.
And I urge you,
No!
I beg you!
Not to sneak in for a looksee.
For it probably will be your last.
For that house is more,
Than a haunted house.
It's a hungry house.
It devours people.
It chews them up and spits them out.
It should be torn down.
And the wreckage burnt.
And the land it once stood on,
Should be covered in salt.
So I'll tell you one last thing.
And this is for free.
About that house,
And what dwells there.
Whatever it is,
Whatever walks there...

Walks alone.