In a crooked old house that looks like a face,

Whispers and secrets slither through space.

The mirrors are watching. The floorboards can moan.

The candles go out, when you are alone.

You can hear laughter, though no one is near.

The house loves feeding off of your fear.

Portraits will smile, but their eyes stay the same.

When you walk past, they’ll whisper your name.

If you shall wander where the black roses bloom,

Beware of that house...Inside’s your doom.