Laughing and scratching just at your door, hear the quiet steps.
See them scurry from out the light and into the dark, in which they keep their foul delight.
There is no fear to be had, of these spirits here, the owns that make them selves known, those that thrive on fear.
But truly, beware the silent home, fear the quiet dark, hear them plodding in silence and feel the ghastly breath upon that chilled nape of your neck.
Rest not the weary in a house of the dead for you’ll not waken again, this I fear my friend.
They come to take your breath, they come to take your warmth and in it’s place they leave only a chill embrace that has not a single bit of worth.
So fear the silence and rest not the weary but waken the wary and fear for thy soul for they come to claim it and the life you know.
This is the risk and the warning from the wary to the weary, and the words of the restless dead. I warn you not from goodness, but for myself and my own plans.
For I hope you laugh and shake your head, and then take yourself, your weary bones, to your untroubled bed resting in that corner of this home I know so well, this home in which I died, where I am dead.
And where I hope to live again.