Confessions of a Haunted House
A poem
A poem
They think I’m just an ordinary Victorian manor,
but if these walls could speak…
I’ve seen things that would curdle the blood,
ghosts gliding down the stairs at midnight,
objects levitating, unexplained cracks in the plaster.
The electricity shorts out, lights flickering,
shadows darting across the floors.
My floorboards creak with the weight of secrets,
a symphony of sorrow and rage.
Voices whisper in the attic,
beckoning the curious to venture up,
but those who heed the call
are never seen again.
I’ve watched families tremble in their beds,
fragments of nightmares clinging to their skin.
Some have fled in terror, swearing never to return.
But others, the thrill-seekers, the sceptics,
they come back, again and again,
compelled by the siren song of the unknown.
I’ve felt the malevolence seeping through my foundation,
a dark energy that twists and coils.
The past owners, they tried to exorcise me,
to cleanse my halls of the malicious spirits.
But the more they fought, the stronger the forces grew,
until the house itself seemed to turn against them.
Now I stand, a monument to the macabre,
a warning to all who dare to cross my threshold.
For I am not just an ordinary Victorian manor.
I am a vessel for the restless dead,
a portal to realms beyond the veil.
And I will never let my secrets be silenced.
