It was the house that had stood empty for years,
urban myths that had spread before my years.
Death was meant to have left its mark on those
that once lived, but never did depart with a
heart beat.
Dares were given but never upheld, for fear of
what was left in this home of tortured fears untold.
A sleep over one night from when darkness touched
the rooftop, till dawn had pierced the boarded window
and daylight shone through its holes.
To walk up the path to this dilapidated dwelling,
in darkness and into the blackness of this home.
Boards lose as we sneak in, will we see light,
will we make it out to home.
Hours past like minutes, as no one wished to be alone,
the shadows paint pictures in our minds,
terror grips a few as they ask to go home.
Creaking windows floor boards groaning with age,
but like foot stepscoming closer,
heart beats faster now heard clearer than any noise.
I face enters the door, we scream and run,
the dead are coming for us, as we all feverishly run.
out the house we scatter and dart, not knowing
that it was a just a homeless person looking for warmth.
And so the tale continues, an urban myth carries on,
for the tale told of the dead coming for the children
as they did run. But the truth is that it is just a home
that is old and disused, and no blood was spilt by anyone.
