The curtains are open, the story is whole.
The stains on the bathroom window are old.
The lights do flicker, and the doors do creak,
The only fear in this house is to speak.

Sometimes the neighbors think they are haunted,
The old wood statue by the door has long rotted.
The fear in their eyes must remain hidden,
Outside the door, they are forever forbidden.

The house stands on nothing but fear,
The welcome mat reeks of rotten old beer.
They heard the stories, but they aren’t convinced.
There’s a kid in that house? Heaven forbid.

Sometimes it’s said that there are eyes in the windows,
Seeking escape, waiting for a hero.
They look young, but tired and old,
They look so beaten, they just do what they’re told.

They hear voices sometimes, out of the door.
It’s just shouting and screaming and nothing more.
The words are slurred and the voices seem angered,
Bottles are crashed, dreams are shattered.

One time they saw a girl come out,
She had wounds all over, and wore nothing but a pout.
Her skin was pale, her bones were weak,
The clothes that she wore simply reeked.

Her eyes looked back at the door with fear,
Hoping that her alcoholic father won’t come near.
She looks at her neighbors, begging them for help.
She does not talk, she does not yelp.

Deep in her eyes, she seems so broken,
The sounds that she makes seems like she’s choking.
She wants to run, but she knows she’s too late,
She’s trapped here, consumed by this fate.

She turns back around, her eyes deep and sullen,
The cuts on her arm seem deeper and sunken.
She heads back to the door, pulling it open,
Her cries for help, were forever unspoken.