I thought to write his story so famous in his death, Raised in this place, taken many a fearful breath. This place lent credit to the monster he had been, Perhaps a gain of knowledge would stop this happening again.
I did not wish this journey, yet I was here. These empty halls still held intense fear. Though no one stayed here anymore, Innocence was taken as they entered the door.
The haunted halls held many, many, rooms, Broken beds, broken furniture, broken brooms. Dust and cobwebs darkened shadows how eerie the feel, Stories I was told, tales recited, the happenings were all too real.
Children brought forth in the middle of the night, Begging, pleading knowing it would never be all right. Skeletons in the closet, sometimes wee little bones, I cry as I felt their deaths, silent and all alone.
Punishment for a deed of which they had no clue, Wondering how they could right it, asking what to do. I had to flee this hall, I had to leave this place I could feel their pain, betrayal, and tears upon their face.
I ran and ran hearing the screams as I raced down the stairs, I could hear them; I could feel them coming from everywhere. I rushed down the many flights and out into the warm day sun, My dearest readers I cannot go on. This story will be left undone.
© Cynthia Clark