Smurl House, Pennsylvania — Infested
by Dawg
Twilight presses in–shadows writhe and ripple along the battered walls,
the Smurl House stands, stubborn and silent, bearing the burden of unspoken calls.
A relic gnawed by time and darkness,
every brick stitched with memories scarred and deep,
haunted by something older than grief,
a presence lurking where light dares not creep.
Every groan of the floorboards–every sharp, metallic snap–
signals the slow encroachment of terror, a dread that will never collapse.
Behind faded wallpaper and stained crown molding,
unseen hands extend and curl,
reaching for warmth, for breath, for the pulse of life,
to drag it into their shadow-swirl.
What once was safe–kitchen laughter, children’s toys abandoned in the hall–
now twists into distortion, a fever dream where foul whispers call.
The air grows thick with rot, despair painted in sickly, oily streaks,
a living nightmare gnawing sanity raw, as the house’s pulse steadily peaks.
Windows rattle with silent screams, glass shivers under midnight’s gaze,
echoes of torment ricochet through rooms where the line between worlds decays.
Battles rage in hidden corners–faith against blight, hope against venom’s sting–
yet every prayer seems to crumble, drowned by the thing’s relentless ring.
Time here is captive, frozen by a force no exorcist could quell,
the walls clutch stories best left buried, in the secrecy where nightmares dwell.
Haunted memories crawl forever, refusing release, refusing decay,
the Smurl House persists, a monument to infestation,
where the living are helpless prey.