Catch those condemnations on the rim of your glass.
Mix in amber.
Preserve and observe this staging saga.
Of my life in Technicolor.
Shining like the diamonds above your eyes.
Then you cover all you see in flowers.
A bed. A tomb.
A road for my departure.
The red lights blur inside my skin.
Casting reflection on the mood I’m in.
A soured feeling of discontent.
The angry ebb of self-descent.
Yet neon blood flows inside my veins.
A pumping pressure which starts to gain.
Which travels north from my deep south.
And splatters the truth from out my mouth.
Though shock is not my best intention.
Nor pain or hurt, out from this invention.
But to boldly state from strength and love.
That the only thing we share is blood.
The neighborhood of west Hawthorne Drive in quiet Greenfield Wisconsin is filled with dark stories and darker rumors. There’s the haunting by a faceless creature. They’ve all seen it. They’ve all experienced its presence. On the one hand, it seems to desire the life of mortals, on the other, it befriends a small boy. It both mocks and assists. Runs away and stands face-to-faceless face.
And not to mention the mysterious death of the street’s namesake, Jim Hawthorne. His strange and reclusive widow peers from behind her drawn curtains, rarely leaving her home, but to walk her little dog or tend her manicured gardens… yet she’s not one for giving up any of the cul-de-sac’s secrets.
But in the days leading up to Halloween, events take a more sinister turn, including strange visitations, an eerie violet haze in the sky, attempting murder, breaking-and-entering, and multiple police check-ins… until not one of the residents can deny: something or someone is here to stay.
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Havoc and Consequence 