At sundown, when light runs dim,

And the last of the sun’s rays disappear from sight,

The cheerful scene that was once our house,

Becomes the morbid painting of night.



Things cast long shadows on the walls,

Their bodies long and thin.

Pictures scattered through the corridors,

Gaze down, their smiles now leers with much chagrin.



Strange bumps and scuttles scratch the walls,

The redwoods out back sway in the rain,

While a howling wind sweeps through the trees,

The sound of spirits gone insane.



The passageways and halls go deep,

Their yawning arches flooded with black,

And who knows what occupies the dark hole at the end,

That may spring out to attack.



The coat rack in the foyer corner,

Is strewn with hats and clothes,

It looms twisted and bony, a skeleton,

Buried beneath all its woes.



Moonlight filters in through the curtains,

They illuminate red in the midnight hour.

Through the inky blackness there is a dripping sound,

The result of a hidden monster’s power.



Tiny eyes peer in through open windows,

Uncanny and unseen.

All objects seem to bear a face,

Frowning, mouths open in a silent scream.



The staircase starts to groan and creak,

No longer are the doors pearly white.

Moans and wails echo all around,

The house bent over in its darkened plight.



But when twilight comes on silent feet,

The blackness shrieks in spite.

The first rays of morning filter through,

And all dark things say goodnight.