In a small town

Off county road 43,
A curving and winding road
Leads to a dead-end.

There is a house, decrepit
And peeling.
With a soul accompanying it.

Nobody kens who the woman is
Only rumors can say
What she looks like.

It is said that she is a witch
One that steals wandering children
Only one night of the year.

On the last day of october
The children wait till dusk to go out
Skipping from house to house ringing doorbells.

Having fun but still being aware,
Of the witch that is said to be waiting,
Waiting for one that will fall behind.

The next morning the word missing is thrown all over town
Another child stolen in the night
Only to become another rumor.