The Holliday House

In the historic heart of Marion’s streets,

Stands Holliday House where past and present meet.

With brick washed in white and a door painted black,

A place where the echoes of footsteps come back.

The windows are eyes that shimmer at night,

Reflecting the moon in ghostly light.

Stories are whispered in the autumn breeze,

A symphony sung by the ancient trees.

They say once a family lived here with glee,

Laughter would dance through the halls wild and free.

But time wove its spell, as time often will,

And now all is quiet, so eerily still.

Does the house dream when the world is asleep?

Does it sigh with the weight of the secrets it keeps?

Or does it just stand, watching years drift away,

A relic of moments now lost to decay?

Yet come the first snow, when the lanterns glow,

The Holliday House puts on its show.

A flicker, a light, a voice on the air,

Or just the wind playing tricks with despair?

Step inside, if you dare to believe,

For magic and mystery are all that it weaves.

The past never sleeps in this house by the trees,

It lingers in whispers, it hums in the breeze.