Ilchester

An ill-fated location Doomed to be forever cursed Tavern in the backwater Empty chairs and empty rooms Ol' George couldn't sell the damned thing There was no profit to be made This was no place to start a business But the isolation soon proved a boon Brothers of the Most Holy Redeemer Humble Italian order of the church Drawn there by its solitude Made Ol' George an offer One he sure could not refuse Old stone house became a chapel Brick on brick and stone on stone Built a palace of worship and study At least that's what they told us What waxes must surely wane Ilchester, after all, was cursed After a century of prosperity Enrollment slowly fell to naught After the decline came abandonment Neglect, decay and buildings fallen to ruin The power of the image of the son on the cross Proved to be powerless indeed From the bowels of the earth deep below The very foundations of Ilchester's church The fiery fingers of the dark lord Spread like some malignant disease Cultists and acolytes of Satan Had long prepared for this dark day Reveling in the destruction they had sown Offering sacrifice of flesh and blood The house of god had become a house of hell Where no man of Christ dare set his foot Black hoods and bloodshot eyes Swirling dance around the altar Chanting ancient incantations Praise the victory of the curse The isolation has prevailed A place of a darker sort of prayer Though the Hell House is but a ruin The tingle of dread unseen lingers still