Whispers of Stories Untold

Within the center of a once thriving village,
stands a great old oak - eerily placed.
Encircled by structures no longer inhabited - left dark and empty with stories untold.
Gnarled branches stretch, grasping for life, but finding only death.
A beacon it once was for those who lived near.
Now just an echo of a forgotten age and the deaths of those held dear.
None enter the village today no, no one resides here.
The last inhabitant ran them through in fear.
Sent from below, the shadow of death swarms in swallowing whole.
Twisting and swirling it made its way
from house to house for all it ensnared, hurling them to their graves.
Screams disturb the quiet stillness of the midnight air.
Sending all who hear into silent chaos - that is deaths bell.
Shadowy figures wind their way, through streets left empty and bare.
The last occupant lay in blissful slumber, ignorant of what is to come.
She sighs as she dreams of apple blossoms in spring.
In moonlit darkness she softly snores.
The shadowy figures make their way to the room where she lay.
The last of their victims she has become.
Vanishing back into obscurity, they depart, leaving no hint of their sinister visit.
The wind whispers of stories left untold.
Streets lay dark and barren of the life that was.
A warning I must give to those who wander in.
Do not stray from the road for there is but one story told.
A few remain who would not go, the village they will reside, evermore.
However, life has passed them by - their death they do not perceive.
Haunting all who wander in, they too are unseen.