A house stands upon a shady hill,

jaded shade of bloody veined moon,

lightning strikes of knotted intestines,

bleached bones leading my destiny.

Deafening claps of thunder resound -

be still – your flesh and blood is his prize.

Black nightmares sold to highest bidder,

Ghastly ghostly spirits waving in mist

invade and twist my thought waves.

Residents of the dark snatch my soul,

trees wearing monster masks twitch

skeletonized arms like spider webs.

Crazy, cackling laughter at midnight hour

entices spooked neck hair to stand on end,

pleading to escape wrath of nameless souls,

splashing sanguine stains seeping from walls.

Twilight bends into night as mortality

come to life tiptoeing on broken glass

I cringe in the corner and cover my face,

ask the blackness, “Can you see me now?”

“A House stands upon a shady hill...”

Like a lady in waiting. Like a child still born. Like the cries one would hear from a doll gagged and scorned.

And in it's parlor built for song and dance. Rots a dance floor. None ever got the chance.

Like the nursery built for a suckling son.

Saw the sun shine never on a living one.

Was too shady. For lady. For garden. For love. So forlorn was its story. Think cursed from above.

From its Yves to its Gables.

And rocking less cradle.

Sits an illness. A stillness.

Unholy. Death labeled.

That gaze. You dared not.

A malaise I now share. Wearing a thousand mile stare. So say my thoughts.

Like a corpse caught, In the hangman's frayed knot.

Yet still plenty hemp strands.

To send any ill man.

To the boat man. Two silver.

Wind not.

(Picture a man choking to death? Just as I’d thought)

Would you dare spend a night?

Holed up in this haunt?

Do I dare? Whilst I write?

As the Shadow grows closer I fight.

The urge to take flight.

From my penance. My plight.

To be silenced by the featureless.

Night.

The witch takes her nightly task

To summon her spell book at dusk

She's making a portion

In her house

That stands upon on a shady

Sandy eerie foggy hill

In goes the tail of a dragon

With a dash of a pinch of

A spider's web

& an eye of a golden eagle.

The lightest feather from

A laying hen.

She throws a baby's

First laugh into the cauldron,

And a frog's croak too.

Then she adds a part of a twig

Later, a mix of crushed ol' dying

Brown oak leaves.

A few extra rusted iron nails

Mix of crushed berries:

Strawberries, blueberries

Even blackberries

For a different kick

To this unusual concoction

She gives it a short while

For all the ingredients

To fully react

To form something new

with a soft poof

She knows it's ready

Into a tiny bottle

All the juice goes

She places a label

It's a new brand of:

Cough Syrup

For her sneezing dear chap

Her sweet loving dog

Quite sick

Under the broomstick

Watching his Mummy

Prepare medicine for him

What a lucky lil fella.

A house stands upon a shady hill

Stepping in gives my bones a chill

The lights fail to go on with the switch

At the kitchen stands an old with

Stirring something in a pot of brew

A black cat doesn't purr, whispers "boo"

"Come sit," she says, pulling out a chair

Her cackle gives rise to my every arm hair

She pours some broth in the bowl for me

Three eyeballs float to the top, can't see

Dashing fast, I race to the creaky door

"Wait," she cackles, "don't you want more?"

A house stands upon a shady hill. That's the first thought that pops into Ali's head when she sees the ramshackle building perched precariously above her on the overgrown hill. Ali was always trying to put things...poetically. It was something silly she'd been doing since she was seven. Her father was a poet, her mother was a song-writer...Ali wanted desperately to follow in their footsteps, but her attempts at poetry and music were not only disconcerting, but down-right terrifying in the case of trying to play the violin. Animal control had shown up once, with reports of an injured cat.

     Ali had been so mortified she hadn't wanted to go to school. But here she was, finally able to run away from the jeering pack of predatory teens who seemed to follow her around these days.

     With a sigh, Ali shielded her eyes from the sudden glare of the sun and stared at the house. It was falling apart, with its gutters barely hanging on, and its shatters hanging at odd angles. One or two of the windows on the large house were broken, and the gardens were overgrown. The front porch pillars were covered with ivy, and one of them was broken, and had fallen over, causing the rotting roof to sag.

     Ali was adventurous by nature, but when she heard the sounds of a hurt animal--it sounded vaguely like a kitten--she perked up.

     Looking around quickly to make sure no one was around in case she did something stupid, she hurried up the hill as fast as her strong legs could carry her.

     Reaching the top, she paused once more to survey the house. A sudden gust of wind caused blonde hair to blow in front of her eyes. When she brushed it away, the air seemed colder and the sun had slipped behind a cloud.

     The sound came again, and Ali followed it across the sagging, rotting porch (avoiding the large holes in it as she went) and into the entry way. 

     It was silent again as she surveyed the entry way. It was rotting, and the once ornate wallpaper now hung in tattered shreds. The carpet on the floor looked like rats had chewed it away, and the paneling on the wall was battered and splintered. The solitary window was covered with cobwebs and so thick with dust and dirt just a dull bit of sunlight pierced the shadowy depths of the room.

     Her eye was drawn to the dark red stain in the corner. Curious as always, Ali leaned down and touched it with her fingers.

     Horror made her shiver as she drew them back and saw them covered with blood.

     Animal blood. The injured animal you hear, Ali.

     Everything seemed to slow down. She could hear her thudding heart, and also the creak of a door opening somewhere down the hall.

     Everything was going fuzzy.

      "Stop it!" she shrieked, slapping herself. Hard.

      Surprised, she stopped, and gradually her breathing slowed down.

     "It's just animal blood and it's a drafty house."

      That explanation would have worked, except it didn't explain the knife blade that was now at her throat.

A house stands upon a shady hill…

Not grand in charm nor stature,

Yet drawing you against your will,

To welcome your disaster.

You know this house!...and so you dread...

As Truth peers out the window.

Old voices echo in your head,

A rising dead crescendo.

What lies behind its wretched door,

Is what you fear the most,

Dark hallways filled with blood and gore,

Those long forgotten ghosts.

It beckons you, not once, but twice!

Hypnotic, cruel tormenter.

It pulls you by your own device...

You've no choice but to enter.

“Remember!” screams the darkened shell,

And you do.. despite your horror.

History fills these walls of Hell,

And you're the damned explorer.

Here in this room.you've lain awake,

Love's footsteps loud, descending,

Down a spiral staircase to its wake,

The funeral neverending.

Here too, you've buried scraps of pain,

Beneath the floorboards, creaking,

In hopes that they would here remain.

Instead, they clothe you, reeking!

Here, once, you planned your future, great,

With thoughts of hope and freedom,

Your suitcase packed with guaze and tape,

To slow your steady bleeding...

Yes..a house stands upon a shady hill,

In the corners of your mind,

And though it hurts, you visit still...

In hopes that you fill find

Some secret passageway unknown,

That leads to restoration,

A healing, mending, loading zone,

To start your renovation.

Here, once, you thought you left for good,

And never to regress...

But truth be told, you never could...

You're too much of a mess.

@Fortbruce

A house stands upon a shady hill. It beckons with girlish trim. A fitting façade, for what might have been. Through the autumn leaves it beckons: Come closer. Stillness, broken by dainty footsteps and giggles, reminiscent, amidst curtains and spindles. Come closer still... peer within to find emptiness behind the windowsill. Folded, torn, paper thin—just lacy exposure from film. Not a photo; more than that. A card with postage kissed upon its back. A turning point, very concrete: a Name, a Street. An urgent message scrawled in scripted hand—signed with passionate blotted Initials. Faceless people and unfamiliar places; no date, but a Moment that makes the pit of the stomach ill. A smear of blood and tears—or was it just the ink and rain? So eerie that it's real. No one left to console, though the artifact evidences that it happened not so very long ago. A relentless wind whips around a desolate imaginary figure. Tragic and timeless standing like some warrior upon an empty hill, I see him holding out his bleeding heart... red stamped white flag fluttering in retreat. Utterly alone, so far from home.

—Return to Sender, Address Unknown.

A house stands upon a shady hill

The wind not blowing, the trees all still

There is a story, though one not oft told

Of this very house, now aged and cold

A woman lived here, her husband too

They had two kids and one more due

It was late one night, when they were abed

She heard a sound outside in the shed

She roused her husband to go and see

From what manner of creature this sound did be

He headed downstairs, a gun in his hand

Snuck out the door and passed over his land

Outside of the shed he drew up short

For inside the structure he heard a snort

Carefully he opened the door to look

Though in truth he was scared so his whole body shook

Inside was a demon, there was no other word

With horns and a tail and a body all furred

The door squeaked on its hinges and the demon whirled

To look at the man with his claws unfurled

It took but an instant for the claws to reach home

Slicing the man right down to the bone

He screamed for an instant, then fell down dead

His body askew, blood a river from his head

The woman inside heard the terrible noise

And in her fright, she lost all her poise

She shouted out loud for her husband to answer

But the demon grew louder, its voice spreading like a cancer

It raced through the shed and entered the house

Seeking its prey like a cat hunts a mouse

It found the woman there and her children too

And there was nothing at all they were able to do

She pleaded and begged, but the beast didn't care

Stripping their flesh and tearing their hair

The neighbors found them the following week

But the demon was gone, even though long they did seek

About a year later, the house was all rotted

Yet in the debris a neighbor claimed that he spotted

A ghostly figure moving through the yard

And this tale did he tell, as if he were a bard

The figure was a woman in a white dressing gown

With trickles of red running down from her crown

In her hands was a child, though not yet a full form

As if he were growing and had not yet been born

She gave a loud wail and called out for her mate

But there was no answer, though long she did wait

The ghost reappears every month at full moon

When there is bright light to reveal all the gloom

Now no one will visit the house on the hill

And aside from the hauntings, all remains still

#ghoststory #challenge #rhyme #poetry

A house stands

Upon a shady hill

Hidden in the shadow

Of the local saw mill

Men often stayed here

And worked off the bill

Chopping up logs

While honing their skill

Though run down now

The house was once filled

But the men made space

For some trouble until

One night those men

Were given a spill

They were found when

The smell came downhill

All of them twisted

They had been killed

But no one knew who

Had wished them ill will

Enough to mangle

Their bodies but still

The faces stared frozen

Gaped with the shrill

Screams that were cut

To a violent standstill

Bodies were taken

But angry spirits willed

Themselves to stay their

Up on that hill

In that tiny house

Where they were killed

I've never gone in

Myself if you will

The door hangs open

Waiting to thrill

The men still get loud

And drink their swill

But their ghosts walk around

With heads open and spilled

Angry and looking

For fear to instill

So venture on in

Or peek past the sills

But beware of the men

From the Fayetteville Mill

A house stands upon a shady hill

Where nothing stirs even the insects are still

You may think it´s only the wind that whispers in your ear

But you´d be wrong there is evil here

The soulless house beckons you to its door

With every step your heart beats more and more

Inside it is cold and empty void of light

The atmosphere repugnant with anger and spite

On the walls are family portraits dusty and torn

Ripped apart by jealousy and scorn

The man of the house he distrusted his wife

So one evening he ended her with a kitchen knife

For he thought she loved another

His own dear older brother

So in a rage he went into her room

Stood above her in the darkened gloom

He smiled and slashed at her throat

Blood staining her pure white petticoat

When he had done

He walked down the hall to his son

Again he raised his blade

The boy could not be saved

As he watched his blood run red

The father screamed clutching his head

Falling to the floor in horror he took his own life

Mixing his blood with that of his sons´ and wife

A hundred years have passed by

Still if you listen you can hear him cry

A spirit of a man pleading for salvation

Forever trapped in his own damnation  

________________

© M.Withers/M.Strudwick . All rights reserved.

Both the name The EriduSerpent/EriduSerpent

and any written material is owned solely by the above named.

Permission granted for all written material to be shared but not for profit.