Past Nightfall
On Halloween, I heard of a guesthouse
advertising stays in a haunted house.
Spend one night, get a year's lodgings for free,
I was sure it was mere hyperbole.
Its decrepit looks failed to frighten me,
so I decided to ask for a key.
And upon opening a daunting door,
my footstep drew squeaks from a creaking floor.
There was no hydro, only an oil lamp,
and the furniture felt filthy and damp.
But I proceeded to explore the halls,
checking out smells seeping out of the walls.
I heard garbled whispers and muffled screams;
the kind of things one hears in nightmare dreams.
A stench was oozing from cracks in the floor,
as I searched the attic spattered with gore.
My heart jumped; when shadows started to shift,
causing reality to bend and drift.
And as fear fuels the panic, I feel,
I'm more and more convinced ghosts are real.
I soon concluded that this wasn't funny;
my life is worth much more than free money.
So I quickly hightailed it out of there;
if that makes me a coward, I don't care.
You can call me nuts, but that house has spooks,
those who've fled there, aren't just a bunch of kooks.
And you'd be a fool to stay past nightfall;
for I've seen things that would make your skin crawl.
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