The house at the edge of the forest stood there,
Just like it stands now, old, dilapidated, abandoned,
With only the bats living in the lofty roofs of its towers,
Since before our town was founded a couple of centuries ago,
In a careful distance, with respect spanning the void between us and the house at the edge of the forest.
It doesn't harm us, it doesn't creep closer to disturb people's sleep,
It only stands, as it always did, at the edge of the forest,
Its windows illuminating the nighs' blackness redly sometimes,
Inconspicuously to most people sleeping peacefully, hopefully out of reach of whatever lives inside, apart from the bats.
They close their eyes to the mystery of the ancient house looming at the edge of the forest,
Like they close them to welcome dreams,
But I can't, I've seen the windows shine with the crimson hue, and the red light poisoned my mind with curiosity, which I can not resist.
And just like the house's soul crept into my mind,
I'm creeping along the forest's tree line towards the trap door hidden under the back porch,
The only entrance into the house at the edge of the forest,
Hoping that I'll use it again as the exit later.
And if something happens...
I don't want to think about that, or I will lose the courage to walk beyond the walls of the house at the edge of the forest,
Where no one I know had ever dared to set foot...
Or at least, they did not live to tell the tale of their reckless adventure.
