Whispers of History

With dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares,
Screams and howls are heard from that darkness
presented this warm summer night.
The moon gives little of its beacon,
its comforting light; instead darkness blankets
the path mischief follows.

With giggles and ill-intention, they struggle
Against the wind, which whistles in such a
Way you can hear it’s whispered urges:
“Turn…turn…turn away!”
But mischief does not take time to hear the
Commands of nature.

Mischief is too ignorant in this world,
to understand the threats of another realm.
He is just common man, seeking excitement
In their humdrum life. Something about this path
Calls to them, almost as if by name, and they
Eagerly await the surprise of what it could be.

A mixture of emotion fills the small group as
mischief charges the rotting steps to the aging
wooden portal. With only a moments hesitation
an invisible force opens the door, revealing the
cobwebs, dust, and emptiness of this old mansion.
But through this emptiness, stories unfold.

The floral paper glued onto the walls years ago peels
away from the ceiling; trying to escape the cursed walls
of this manor. The screeching floor boards give evidence
of the past’s presence, and the shrilling whistles through
the cracks murmur warnings of lurking shadows infesting
the estate. But what awaits them as they step in…

what presents the entire tale of the tried and twisted
sole inhabitant of this dreary home waits at the top of
the stair well; a faint mist, a spectre in the dark;
her figure forms, her head tilts to her side,
her neck reveals the remains of her rope burns
her arms hang, lifeless, at either side of her black dress.

Her moans of the past send mischief into a fright.
With it’s breath, a tale of agony escapes the lonely
heart of this lone soul. She begins to glide down
the stairwell, eager to greet her visitors on this
cold winter night, but mischief turns away, escapes!

They run through the dark woods until the clearing.
Never again will they go to sleep at night with a
peace at mind. Those empty eye’s of the cursed
woman will always haunt them, lingering in their
minds. They will scratch at their face as they
can feel the sensation of her hair laying over
them. They shiver as they feel her cool breath.

Their dreams will be filled; not with dreams at all
but with the nightmare that her life provided. Sins;
sins of lust and hate, and the tragic price for such
err, the death of something evil. Suicide, generation
after generation of suicides, until they find themselves
in this world, almost possessed, and find her end, their own.

…mischief is no more.