The Ancient Ram Inn, England — Witness To Despair
by Dawg
Stone and timber, nailed in centuries’ hush,
the Ancient Ram broods beneath Gloucestershire’s crush.
Walls sag with secrets, the floorboards confess in moans–
a history soaked in sacrifice, splinters and broken bones.
No sunlight softens the corners, no laughter survives the night,
rooms press in close, air thick with a terror too dense for flight.
In this house, the wind carves pagan names across every beam,
the smell of old fires, sweat, and suffering, never quite redeemed.
In the earth beneath the threshold, bones of strangers coil–
priests and innocents mingled, victims of ritual toil.
Foundations drink up sorrow, as if grief could be contained,
the curse of burial grounds, their wrath never fully explained.
Dark ceremonies echo, their residue staining each rafter,
shadows slip between timbers, starved for mortal laughter.
Specters parade in candlelight, their faces erased by fear,
they cluster near the staircase, the oldest haunt draws near.
A child’s muffled wailing seeps from rooms left undisturbed,
witches burned or strangled, their sentences never curbed.
Here, even the bravest falter, undone by the ancient weight,
each chamber preserves a ritual, every bed a cursed fate.
At midnight, the house awakens–boards creak, and shadows coil,
a confluence of centuries–misery, magic, and spoiled soil.
No prayers hold sway, no light cuts through this gloom,
the inn’s only mercy is to remember every doom.
By dawn, the inn holds its silence, every shadow intact,
walls weep their secrets, ceiling beams sag with fact.
The Ancient Ram endures–a living grave, a monument to loss,
bound by rites and ritual scars, always counting the cost.
Built on bones, sustained by fear, its fame is never fair–
a witness to despair, and the centuries gathered there.