Father Ryan knelt before the altar.
Never had he known such fear.
The mist outside was speaking.
To those with ears to hear.
And he heard! Oh how he heard.
A thousand voices of the dead.
He clutched his crucifix so tightly.
He prayed and bowed his head.
The mist had halted, no longer moving.
It sensed a weakness on the moor.
It’s many senses searching, searching.
Focused on the old church door.
Beneath the ground, awakened.
The dead began to move.
The mist was calling, calling.
Not to be refused.
The priest heard them.
Rising from the ground.
Heard them by the old church door.
Heard their shuffling sound!
He felt the blood drain from his face.
Now a ghostly white.
His faith dissolved and left him.
The doors flew open with such might!
The Morning came and bells were heard.
The people called to prayer.
They found the church deserted.
Not a living soul was there.
The bell still rang from up above.
Some men went up to see.
Farther Ryan was hanging.
In the churches small belfry.
His body gently rocking.
Against the churches bell.
His face so white and shocking.
His soul now lies in HELL.