Up on a hill,
On the edge of a tiny town,
stood an old house.
The home’s dirty white paint was peeling off,
and the yellow shutters
Hung by their hinges.
All the windows were cracked
and the grass was brown and dry.

No one in town went near
the house on the hill.
Children were held back by their parents,
Teenagers refused to go there,
even on a dare.
People never went into the house
and no one had ever come out,
as far as the town’s people knew.

And, in the house on a hill,
There was a man,
Who was old and frail.
He spent his days
Staring out the window,
Watching the children playing
And the friends laughing.
He watched the couples kissing
And the flowers growing.

And, in the front yard of
The house on a hill,
There was a woman,
who had been old and frail,
But now was dead.
A headstone marked her final
Resting place,
And a small candle burned
next to the grave everyday.

No one went near
The house on a hill,
Or the man that it housed.
Because no one wanted
To leave their happy homes
To help make a sad one better.