The Bleeding House - Ian Duquemin

I'd walked for days through rain and mud, the cold slowed down my freezing blood, the bully wind did blow me where no one should ever go
It pushed me to the bleeding house... The bleeding house perched on a hill... A place that never warmed a clinging chill
I'd walked a many mile that day and needed somewhere dry to lay, my weary feet had come a long, long way
I opened up the creaking door that sounded like a ripping saw, and entered anyhow or come what may
Cobwebs from another time, abandoned many years ago, were swaying from the ceilings to and fro
I tiptoed on the crimson floor, I pulled the collar of my coat, to warm the cold that gathered round my throat
I climbed upon a table top and pushed aside the rusty knives, the tools that butcher Pete had used to take so many lives
Beside the many chopping tools... My eyes began to close... The stench of death assaulted me and punched me in the nose
It wasn't long 'til slumber came, I dreamed about the driving rain and of the bleeding house where I did lay
And in the dream I realised that this was not a resting place, and not the place where most would choose to stay
As long ago this very room became each victims lonely tomb, they'd screamed for help but no one heard them shout
They tried and cried and prayed but died and butcher Pete was not the kind of landlord who would ever let them out
This man who wore a twisted grin, would find a house and then break in and steal people from their very homes
He'd watch them in their cozy beds, decide which knife he'd need to separate the fleshy meat from lazy bones
He'd drag them to the bleeding house no mercy for his captives... No sorrow for the dead was ever shown
In segments under floor boards were the bodies of the victims in the house perched on a hill where spirits groan
This room of doom contained their gloom until the falling of the moon...
By morning every ghoul had disappeared
As if the darkness hid them from the warming of the sun...
As if the sun was something to be feared
I woke abruptly in the dark, I struck a match that caused a spark that set alight the cobwebs overhead
Above me was the face of butcher Pete who wore a twisted grin just like the legend said
I never did get out alive although I tried my best to fight, this house upon the hill became my tomb
And in the darkness of the night I walk with other spirits on the blood soaked wooden floorboards of the room
We wait until the moonlight glows and listen as the cold wind blows
To warn away who ever comes along
A traveller who has walked the path, that all inside were dragged upon, the very path that I had chosen wrong
We try to scare them all away but those that do decide to stay, will never leave the door in which they came
As butcher Pete will use his rusty instruments to carve upon their chests the landlords name

Ian Duquemin