To the Count's Lair

Dripping hot wax on clammy stone,
by flickering winds, the shadows roam,
a pitch of death whispers through the air,
drawing me deeper in the foul beasts' lair.

Rusted hinges cry screams of warning,
"Flee this night and survive by morning".
Cowardice is what a doomed soul cannot afford.
For it would hunt across this land and seas aboard.

It knows thy scent all too well,
which is why I tread where evil dwells.
A stake in hand and hammer in the other,
cross hanging on my neck, my divine cover.

Echoing steps pass along these halls,
where screams had beckoned a hero's call.
They begged for mercy whilst the monster stood,
it smiled unto them with fangs drenched in blood.

Its two piercing eyes are ruby red.
Its skin as pale as the long-buried dead.
Its words are spoken by a foreign tongue,
It's an evil messenger with a breathless lung.

Haunted of dreams and caster of doubt.
Feeder on cattle in times of mortal drought.
The ultimate predator and fullest leach,
tonight it ends in the home I've breached.