It was a hot and humid night in September,
Each gruesome detail I shall try to remember.
I drove to the asylum six miles from town,
Empty and dark, its brick faded brown.

Its windows were broken, the lock busted in,
As if it had long born witness to some awful sin.
I pushed open the door, it gave way with a creak,
I entered a long hallway, and not a word did I speak.

The corridor was dusty, and shadows did loom.
Here in the darkness, no flowers could bloom
From the dead, wilted plants that grew out of the cracks,
And against the far wall leans . . . a bloodied axe.

Its blood-spattered blade catches the light,
I shiver and turn away in fright.
I should leave now, that's the smart thing to do,
Why they don't in horror movies, I haven't a clue.

But I never said I was smart, did I?
I was already there, so I just had to try!
I pressed on, further, down the hallway,
And then I felt a chill as I heard a voice say,

"You're in my house, all alone, it would seem.
"Unless you're outside, no one will hear you scream."
By his thin, bony hand, the axe was grasped,
Turning around, I looked and I gasped.

Weighing my options, I shot a glance at the door,
But between me and it stood the man who'd spoken before.
His face twisted into a freakish grin,
As he licked his lips and prepared to do me in.

So I ran the other way, took off like a shot;
If he caught me, he'd kill me, and down here I'd rot!
Past crumbling plaster walls, empty...