There is a house that sits high on a hill, downtown
Shrubbery and vines are the open arms that welcome anyone who passes
And when they do, they're always sent away with cold bones and blood
A fitting departure package

No one knows exactly what went on in that house
Tales of violence, ****, lies and unholy rituals plague the stories
But there is no record, no way of knowing for sure
A crimson question-mark

Forever, it seems, the house will sit ominously on that hill
Eyes and ears, always curious, will direct themselves to it
Curiousity kills, so they say, but one day someone will be brave enough
A stupid someone

When that poor soul decides they're ready to step inside
After years or so of morbid fascination and research that amounts to seemingly nothing
They will open the door and close it behind them
And no one will ever see them again