Dead House

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Dead House

Submitted: April 07, 2013

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Submitted: April 07, 2013



The house, it groans, it fights at night;
It wants so much to feel.
The blinds are shut, though open slight
And watches for its meal.

The halls are long, the carpet tame
While pots and pans hang still.
The basement sits, the darkening pit
Where Kingsley made his kill.

He's with you now, he sits straight up,
His head hangs next to yours.
You'll turn to look, but find the books
Stacked old and by the door.

He was right there, you'll say \"I swear,
I saw him by the door.\"
Perhaps it was, like back before
When whispers grew like spores.

A falling pot, heard from the room
Not two more down from you.
A voice speaks up, says \"go and see,
What else are you to do?\"

\"Don't leave the house, you like it here.
See what fun we'll have.\"
Then pictures burst inside your eyes
Of saws and bloody halves.

\"It always was,\" the voice then says,
\"The thing that you did best.
You're dead again, you always were
No different from the rest.\"

The closet creeps and opens slow
And darkness tumbles out.
You want to scream, you want to shout,
As children shuffle out.

\"You mustn't leave,\" they say with care,
\"You'll stay with us, like him.\"
They turn to look and by the books,
Stands Kingsley, old and thin.

He's red and masked, his hatchet held
Between his trembling hands.
The door is closed. The window shows
A picture of his plans.

Where trees should stand
Along the banks and through the whitening fields,
Instead you see the blade set free
And cut like oranges peeled.

His face is wide and smiling hard
As laughter gurgles up.
The children clap and dance along,
While blood spills like a cup.

You scream and shake and scream some more,
The hatchet never stops.
But through the glass, the window pane,
The room goes black and pops.

The bulb above burst into black,
The window shows no death.
No hatchet or blood, no swing and a thud,
That sound is only your breath.

You calm at once. The house is fine.
The basement always creaks.
The shadows that walk, that murmur and talk,
Have always been but the trees.

Kingsley is dead, just hit in the head,
He's in the ground and now stinks.
He's not in this room, the closet is closed.
The voices are wind and slow creaks.

\"Come down to the dark,\" it whispers again,
You turn to the door with a whine.
It's gaping and dark, it breaths like a shark.
\"Come down and you'll be just fine.\"

The walls, they shake and then bleed.
The face through the ark, all blistered and dark
Has fallen and burned like a weed.

The skull lights the hall, though dark and still dead
It cracks and it pops like a seed.
It's eyes open up and stares through the dark,
\"You're just what this old house needs.\"

\"It will come,\" it says, still burning and dead,
\"It goes wherever it wants.
It'll run up the stairs, you'll pull at your hair,
It kills and it bleeds and it haunts.\"

The skull then burns out, it leaves a red glow,
The door still open and wide.
The darkening hall, the home to the skull,
It slides like water and tides.

\"You're dead,\" again, the voice speaks up,
\"You died ten years before.
You're Kinglsy - good sir - you killed that old bitch
By hatchet and bursts of gore.\"

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