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Through the dark,

And into the night,

The witches lurk,

And then take flight.

Thirteen beds,

Strewn near and far,

Thirteen heads,

Found in a jar.

The witches died,

The child died first,

The mother cried,

Her death the worst.

And on that night,

No bells did ring,

A man took flight,

No angels would sing.

A witches curse,

Came down on him,

And much much worse,

He's bound to them.

One lonely child,

More innocent than most,

So powerful yet so mild,

Turned him into a ghost.

And with his death,

The man did swear,

With his last breath,

He'd destroy them there.

Mystalia

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