Monte Cristo Homestead, Australia — Haunted Homestead
by Dawg
Midnight wraps the homestead in a strangling shroud,
Monte Cristo’s bones rise black against the wheeling southern cloud.
Ancestral secrets crawl beneath the porch, in shadowed beams,
a house alive with every wound, every echo of unspoken screams.
Floors groan beneath invisible feet, bearing grief’s old scars,
windows flicker with the fleeting faces of the restless dead–
eyes pressed to glass, imprisoned by memory, voiceless in the gloom,
in every silent corridor, the chill of mourning seeps through each room.
A woman’s wail floats up the stair, cold as the grave she never fled,
her rage preserved in faded linens, her vengeance left unsaid.
The housekeeper’s curse still walks at night, fingers clawed and blue,
dragging chains of rumor, spite, and all the bitter truths she knew.
Portraits hang in watchful silence, secrets weighing every frame,
owners gone to dust, but their jealousies remain.
A child sobs in the nursery, unseen hands caress his hair,
a love warped by loneliness, a terror choking the stale air.
Every clock ticks slower here, each second clings and moans,
night after night, footsteps circle round–now gone, now near–
ghosts gather by the staircase, savoring the taste of fear.
Candles gutter on the landing, flames bent by unseen breath,
every shadow warps and stretches, hinting at untimely death.
Monte Cristo remembers, and will not release its claim–
a haunted house built of malice, devotion, and shame.
No visitor leaves unchanged, no heart escapes its weight,
in Monte Cristo’s haunted halls, the living and the dead commiserate.