Silent Witness – with the passionate Crimsin

The wind, a phantom legion, howled its ancient song, Through skeletal branches, where dead leaves clung. A tempest brewed, a symphony of dread, whispering secrets of the long since dead,

The house, a wounded beast, with shutters torn and weak, groaned under the onslaught, its timbers seemed to shriek. Each gust a claw, tearing at its weary soul, A monument to memories, beyond its own control.

Inside, the fire sputtered, a dying, fragile spark, casting dancing shadows, deeper in the dark. An old man sat, his gaze fixed on the flame, A silent witness, to a life that bore no name.

The spirits ached to be understood, the house loomed large and frightened everyone, holding the souls hostage that came before, each a beloved from days gone past, the floors they groaned, and the walls did speak of the dread that happened inside of them

The women haunted the tormented, men who each night sought affection one last time, grieving a harlot she would let him down, and he hanged himself in the parlor, for the first time the house tasted the thrill of bloodletting though it would not be it’s last.

Stabbed family impaled, victims the house whisper fervently to whoever would listen draining the lives of its inhabitants until none could resist it, a black hole of torment the houses close by shrank away from the violence.

It reeked of the fear, of it’s haunted existence, a cautionary tale, about a hellish mansion, all through town you can hear the gossip stay away lest you live to regret it.

The wind outside intensified, a furious, mournful cry, As if to claim the remnants of a life gone by. He felt its icy breath, a chill that pierced the bone, A chilling reassurance, that he was truly alone.

He closed his eyes, and in the darkness, saw a face, A spectral image held, in time and in this place. A smile, a touch, a whisper, now lost to passing years, A phantom presence mingling, with the wind and falling tears.