What follows is the epigraph to a story I began writing quite a few years ago. It winds and weaves its way into the haunting tale until it unravels its mystery to the characters and readers alike.

If ye do want the curse to end,
There be beliefs that you must bend
If I can’t have mine, then you can’t have yours
They’ve all disappeared, the ones you’ve adored
Through the mist and through the fog
Thought the stench of rotting bog
In life and after death
If hearts may pump until there is no breath
If what may be sought is beyond the grave
Once returned, the loved shall be saved
Hence it shall end for this poor knave
You will find no more the misbehaved
Only some find happy endings
For some the heart may still need mending
Until the essence once again becomes whole
All in this castle I control
Beware your sleep, beware your dreams
For when you wake, all’s not what it seems…


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