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Redrum by Stewart Stafford
A Winter's tale of horrors profound,
The haunted hotel's dark tapestry,
Supreme isolation's moonscape snowbound,
A father gripped by homicidal history.
He sought to write, heal, absolve sins,
Overlooked the hotel’s Redrum plans,
Vomiting up daymares of phantom twins,
His mind possessed by unseen hands.
Room Two Three Seven, malevolent,
Forbidden to enter its dark hole,
Where ageless ladies bathed decadent,
Luring caretakers to an adulterer's role.
His wife and son sensed the danger,
A bloody elevator with nowhere to run,
A father's warpath with axe and anger,
He became the monster, the devil's son.
It might horrify 42 ways from Sunday,
Only his shining son grasped the fact,
May as well be across the galaxy,
As in a labyrinth with that maniac.
He failed to kill, he froze, met his fate,
The hotel consumed his spirit as its own,
Purgatorial torture in damnation's bait,
He smiled in the photo, eternally alone.
© Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.
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