A house stands

Upon a shady hill

Hidden in the shadow

Of the local saw mill

Men often stayed here

And worked off the bill

Chopping up logs

While honing their skill

Though run down now

The house was once filled

But the men made space

For some trouble until

One night those men

Were given a spill

They were found when

The smell came downhill

All of them twisted

They had been killed

But no one knew who

Had wished them ill will

Enough to mangle

Their bodies but still

The faces stared frozen

Gaped with the shrill

Screams that were cut

To a violent standstill

Bodies were taken

But angry spirits willed

Themselves to stay their

Up on that hill

In that tiny house

Where they were killed

I've never gone in

Myself if you will

The door hangs open

Waiting to thrill

The men still get loud

And drink their swill

But their ghosts walk around

With heads open and spilled

Angry and looking

For fear to instill

So venture on in

Or peek past the sills

But beware of the men

From the Fayetteville Mill