It is here that I tread with anticipation
Through much thought and consideration
As to the specter that haunts this spire
With its blackened mane and eyes of fire.
So say those who’d walked this flight
And those who could not and who died of fright.
This twisting corridor left black and dour
And it being yso deemed “The Witches’ Tower.”
And so I came to this place in the dead of night
To find out for myself if this legend was right.
Friends and family did solemnly tell
Of the one who had died here, the one who once fell.
Hattie Mae was her name, and still is to this day
The eponymous witch of the story, they say.
Lept she did from this cursed tower
On a night like tonight, on the toll of the Witching hour.
And now here am I, ascending in the dark
Through gossamer and shadow I wearily embark.
Beads of sweat begin to leave my face
As does increase the speed of my pace.
The air grows stale and cool, inhumanly so,
The tension and fear more than one should ever know.
The floor creaks and sighs and moans
Anguished cries of the specter’s groans.
Her fingers brush the nape of my neck;
My own reach back to go and check.
Nothing there as I turn and stare
And continue on to the witch’s lair.
I step and step and, as weary as I become,
My heart is still racing and my legs are growing numb.
And as I move forth with this accursed climb
I begin to feel paranoia grip at my mind.
For I feel a presence drawing near,
And I myself am at the peak of fear
When, deep in the tower, a cackle is heard
And just as sudden my thoughts are blurred.
It’s thunder, I think, and nothing more;
Yet still I am shaken to my very core.
Shadows move in every which way
The shadow of the ghost, the witch Hattie Mae.
The storm can be heard as I soon reach the top
And here I am halted to a sudden stop:
An ebony door blocking my path,
A ward concealing the witch’s wrath.
Beyond this door is the Tower’s room
Where she fell to her death and met her doom.
Wicked whispers in the dead of night
Behind this door they murmur with delight,
“Come in. Come in!” they cryptically say
A haggard, malicious voice, the voice of Hattie Mae.
I muster my strength through all the fear
As the Witching Hour soon draws near.
I burst forth through the door and can only stare,
For the room is empty, and no one is there.
I sigh with relief and let out a laugh
At the sheer potency of “The witch’s wrath.”
I walk to the window, blown open by the storm,
And I sense something peculiar outside the norm.
Reaching the window, staring out into the black,
I feel a cold set of hands push against my back.
