By Jonathan Gilliam
In the hollow, deep and wide,
Where restless spirits lurk and bide,
A voice was heard, a curse was laid,
The Bell Witch wakes where debts are paid.
A whisper low, a cackle bright,
A shape that moves without the light,
It stalked the Bell house, cruel and bold,
A breath of ice, a hand so cold.
John Bell stirred, his chest grew tight,
A voice had found him in the night,
“You stole from me, and now you’ll see,
The price of what you took from me.”
The walls would shake, the doors would groan,
The fire dim, the floorboards moan,
The children cried, too scared to sleep,
As something laughed—low, dark, and deep.
She tore at skin, she pulled at hair,
She slashed at throats with empty air,
No prayers could break her iron spell,
No preacher strong enough to quell.
One by one, they felt her wrath,
Until old John lay in her path,
His breath grew weak, his limbs fell numb,
And still, she whispered, “Time has come.”
Now, when the wind howls past the trees,
Her laughter rides upon the breeze,
And those who dare to speak her name,
May find they’ve stepped into her game.
So heed this tale, don’t take it light,
For some things wake when called at night.
And once she’s whispered at your door,
She leaves you whole, but never more.
