She's dead.
That's why you're here.
The house is dead,
Locked rooms quiet,
Shrouded in dustsheets,
Its secrets lost like souls and snakes
And the box where she locked her will.
Light the fire
So the ghosts may remember warmth.
This house is dead,
Yet some comfort remains.
The beds are soft, the water is hot,
And I've left a light on in the attic.
Water the plants -- they'll reawaken;
They make a potion that restores life,
Though it's wasted here.
This house is dead,
Fit for revenants and hellhounds.
The hunting trophies stare,
Rageful
As these walls stalk you, bloody-eyed,
And will not recognise you as kin.
It's me they want.
He was dead all along --
Let him rest.
His master's dead --
Throw him fresh bones from the grave
Or he'll take you too.
They're both dead
And they want you gone.
This house is dead,
And so am I,
now.
This house is dead.
It rots around you,
Festers spent sin.
Decaying walls break down,
Cracked veins open as you drive in like a splint.
You'll find me at the heart,
Blood still.
This house is dead
But you can bring me back to life.
