The Haunted House And The Squatters

The Haunted House And The Squatters

The house stands still, its walls are cracked,

The air is thick, the doors are black.

A chill runs deep, a silent scream,

The house is hungry; it’s not a dream.

The squatters slip in through the night,

Drawn by whispers, lost to sight.

The floorboards groan, the windows crack,

But they can’t leave; there’s no way back.

Shadows stretch and crawl on walls,

A low voice echoes through the halls.

The house, it moves; it knows they’re here,

The air grows thick with creeping fear.

The doors slam shut, the lights go out,

The house is feeding; there’s no doubt.

They scream and claw, but no one hears,

The house is alive, and it feeds on fears.

It’s in the middle of nowhere; no one nears,

Now the guests are reduced to tears.

A knife is thrown; it hits a wall,

Everyone shakes at the threats in the hall.

The spirits have a human taste and thirst;

This night will only get much worse.

They huddle in a small, dark room,

They pray for daylight to come soon.

Next morning, not a trace of woman or man,

Just a few eyeballs in a cast iron pan.

Once again, the house won, devouring losers;

The house does whatever evil it chooses.