Amityville Horror House, New York — Echo of a Violent Past
by Dawg
In Amityville’s heart, beneath the choked hush of suburban breath,
a gabled house broods over the avenue, glazed with myth and death.
Windows glare like accusations, gaping at every guest,
paint blistered by rumor, foundation weighted with unrest.
Night falls in layers here, each one thicker than before,
every star a bystander, watching violence behind the door.
Porch steps shudder with memory, ivy crawls through cracks in the frame,
inside, the air tastes of iron and blame.
Floors echo the unspeakable, each plank steeped in despair,
walls press in, warped by agony that lingers everywhere.
You can smell old terror–a sour, electric tang,
as if the atmosphere is bruised by every cry and every bang.
Shadows slide along the wainscot, thick with grief and dread,
footsteps from another era circle slowly overhead.
Blood once mapped the stairwell, innocence was forced to flee,
a massacre’s resonance twisted into infamy.
The air congeals with tension, dread pervades each room,
faint voices rise and splinter, then vanish in the gloom.
There’s a hum in the silence, a throb beneath the floor,
the echo of a shotgun, a secret in the drawer.
Amityville, a caution carved in wood and brick and pain,
the ground here’s rich with rumors, every thunderstorm a stain.
Ghosts here are not forgiving, they press in close, unkind,
you leave with your nerves unraveled, a curse sewn in your mind.
The price of what happened lingers–thick, unspent, and true,
in Amityville, the dead remain, waiting to stare right through you.
Each step a reckoning, each sigh another cost,
a house that wears its legend, where the innocent were lost.
Every creak an accusation, every shadow a cast–
this is where history’s violence refuses to be the past.