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Hear the dogs howl at their chains. I've heard them howl like that before - as unseen things scratched at locked doors and Will O' Wisps prowled on the Moors.The night they hanged Allison Poor on Execution Lane.

It's said no grass grew where she walked - thus lived she on the March and Fen. Where twisted root and deep bracken hid witchery's from eyes of men. And Brimstone's reek trailed where she'd been. And Plague lurked where she'd talked.

Lord Dunwith's son, in youthful pride, slept in her hut to prove fear nil and taunted her with lusty will - returning with no hurt or ill. Yet three days hence was struck with chills and in black anguish died.

It's said that werewolves crept behind the night they came for Old Dame Poor and Daemons screamed upon the Moor while bats with eyes like fire soared yet none could save their Mistress for she lay helpless in Wine.

It's said the noose the hangman burned when tightened on the Witches throat and soon after he died of Bloat - her kerchief hid the horns of goats and sobbing night winds grasped her cloak as she twisted and turned.

Hear the dogs howl at their chains. I've heard them howl like that before - as unseen things scratched at locked doors and Will O'Wisps prowled on the Moors. The night they hanged Allison Poor on Execution Lane.

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