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Oh I can hear the bean sidhes wail. O'er the hills and moors. And I can hear her Solemn cries. Right out side your door. Don't take one more step near. Those Irish cliffs my dear.
Creamy white skin, Fiery, flowing hair. Ice cold eyes, An alluring stare. Poisonous words, A descendant of Seth. Blood red lips, The kiss of death.
Summon the dead at your peril Let them rest in peace Mess with what you don't know Will bring you to your knees Form a circle if that's what you think Holds your hands out wide 'I summon thee oh...
There's a man that'd buy your soul. A small price really in this world. But in your next you wish hadn't. And your next life won't be unfurled.
#nightdwellers A wise man stopped me in the street today. Asked me to listen before I went on my way. Told me a secret, that I have 'sweet' blood. And that soon tonight, the vampires would flood.
A ring of foxgloves on the ground, A sharp and light musical sound. Echoing laughter, enticing noise, Elegant bodies, erect with poise.
#nightdwellers. What's at the end of Larswards Path. I bet it's not very nice. It's dimly lit and leads nowhere. Ooo I wouldn't look twice. The locals won't go near it. They take the long way around.
I must tell you the way. I must be quick. We can not delay. Behind the trees. On the edge of town. Is a river, it is filled with a sparkling blue liquid. You must follow it. Follow the stream.
A house, abandoned, but on the mantle Lies a yellowed photograph. My mother, father, sister and I Snapshot of us, mid- laugh. I found it there, thick with grime and dust After forty years or so.
They say she sits upon a deep gray rock. They also say that on your ears she seems To set her lock. The waterfall hides her Beauty but not her voice.
Friday the thirteenth, An unlucky day, Curses witchcraft, sorcery, Well that's what they say. Friday the thirteenth, Watch where you're going, Demons and devils Today are all knowing.
He is see-through just like a mist of a person stood in front of me, but not stood, more like floating.
It will be known as 'Black Wednesday', the first Wednesday of June. It will always live in the memory, and I fear it comes too soon. I cannot tell you why it will, be such a tragic day.
There's a warning that whispers about the morning, It reaches ears and sings its warning...
The year was 1926, a time when kids played in streets, sang songs, and the time of the murders at the sweet young town of Rainham.