"Voices carry here, my boy

They drift from open fields

Can get caught under the eaves

Sometimes, they settle in the attic

In the creaking of the joists

In the rot of old wood

And whisper things…

Things long forgotten-

Things best forgotten!

Don't listen t' them, boy

They ain't for hearin'!

Just let them bleed

Let them seep 

Let the grieving 

wail...

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