There is no solace in the attic,
There are foot prints of mice and spiders that call it their home.
I have known of gatherings that would turn the blood cold.
Come back home when the moon begins to wane, to unfold the letters where
horror stories are written.
Dearest old beast who hides in the invisible house.
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Placed in a hole, I’m waiting for a beacon to shine its light upon my hand. To look at you straight into eyes, cast down up cement memories.... -
We are the agents of despair knocking on your door. If you answer you will see a sickle and scythe, We are not malicious nor will we come af...
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At night, the stairs of this old house creaks Whispering to me, sweet spirit sleeping soundly during the night. The shadow movements, the ...
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