Room 105
Raised voices, shrieking sounds
A faint figure hits the ground.
Bloodied axe glistens grim.
She flees from the ever-present him.
Without conscience, without remorse
Racing through the hotel concourse;
Hiding, scampering, whimpering,
Poor Winifred hides.
My soul is an abode
Where hellspawn breeds.
Heart beats, but my pulse slows
As I feel my new form grow.
Alas, my icy heart shatters:
Billy ripped it to tatters.
But lo! a primal urge lingers.
As terror streaks down my fingers
