by Bryan Ridenour

Created on: October 06, 2009

Up on the hill, deserted house,
Turrets tow'ring o'er.
Wind whipping 'round the old homestead,
A crashing, banging door.

Lightening strikes across the sky,
Oak trees cast shadows long.
A black cat howls his discontent,
A mournful dirgeish song.

A story told, from years gone by,
A suspenseful bit of lore.
An old man vanishing from his bed,
His smiling ways no more.

His wife not spooked by missing mate,
Lived in the house alone.
For years until her death she searched,
But Henry ne'er came home.

On moonlit nights, some say they see,
The old wife stroll, though dead.
And no more happy could she be,
She totes sweet Henry's head.

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