The foundation is slowly crumbling.
Weakened with the weight of 100 years of secrets sitting upstairs, screaming to be told.
Bones crack and fall apart. The foundation is slowly crumbling.
The voices inside whisper then yell. They can’t decide who’s more powerful.
Hidden rooms collect dust, waiting to be discovered.
Everything is crowded, though the space feels hauntingly empty. Creaky floorboards break the silence.
One silver saviour, one silver demon, shows you how to feel again.
Muscles waste and turn to ash, walls can hardly stand.
Sometimes the chaos erupts and seeps out the front door. Only the unlucky have to see it.
A quick glance shows a classic type of beauty; one that houses peace and quietness. A deeper glance crushes the fantastic illusions. I am the Bates House. Stay away from my motel.