In woods that scream of demon dark,
She stands, outlined, serene yet stark.
This lady once the matriarch,
Now hides within the mansion’s park.
Her face, grotesque, is wane and pale,
Her voice rings out, a poignant wail.
Her withered frame is thin and frail,
And yet, tonight, she will prevail.
But she, a witch, has naught to gain,
Yet there's the house where she had lain.
She grins like one who’s gone insane,
And dreams of causing grief and pain.
The woods give up her ghostly frame,
And she without a mite of shame
Slips through the door where she’ll reclaim
Her tortured soul and long lost name.
Then once inside her words are said,
And grief and terror quickly spread.
The air and walls are splashed with red,
And those who were . . . are quickly dead.
Silver trophy winner
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