The Haunting of Sleepy Hollow

The Haunting of Sleepy Hollow

On a foggy night in Sleepy Hollow,
a figure with a head to borrow,
stumbling through the mist, it calls my name.
I know this town is never the same.

The trees are whispering with a mournful sigh.
They warned me, but I didn’t listen, why?
Now I’m trapped in this nightmare zone,
a ghost with a grudge and a heart of stone.

I see the flash of a severed head,
held high in the air by a rider dead.
His eyes are empty, his hands are cold.
His story’s been told, but it’s never grown old.

The wind screams like a tortured soul.
This place, this curse, it takes its toll.
The ghostly rider is coming for me,
and there’s no escape from this misery.

His horse rides faster, the gallop’s near.
My heartbeat echoes, raw with fear.
His eyes are empty, but they burn like fire,
drawing me closer, pulling me higher.
The trees close in, I feel the dread,
the chilling whispers of the dead.

So beware the night in Sleepy Hollow,
where the dead come to play, they’ll follow.
There’s no escaping the curse you’ve seen.
Once you’re here, you’re part of their dream.