In Flint, Michigan, late in May,
Three friends crept in, just past the day.
An old brick home once held the dead,
Now shuttered tight—so rumors said.
A funeral home, long left behind,
With horror tales that gripped the mind.
No entry sign, yet in they crept,
While curious hearts in silence leapt.
The door, though locked, gave way with ease,
Like haunted breath upon the breeze.
For April, one who chased decay,
With camera poised, this made her day.
An urban scout with lens in hand,
She walked through ghosts in no-man’s land.
Her friends behind, the air grew cold,
The hallway dim, the floor was old.
A room ahead, with signs so grim,
Said formaldehyde scrawled edge to rim.
This was the room where bodies drained,
Where fluids pumped and blood-stains stained.
Inside: a gurney, steel and stark,
With tools that whispered tales so dark.
A saw, a blade, a crimson thread—
The silent scream of countless dead.
Yet through the lens, her thrill grew more,
In death’s own house, she dared explore.
A chapel found with caskets still,
A hearse in garage, the air was chill.
But then—a door they hadn’t seen,
Stood waiting there where none had been.
It led beneath, to basement low,
To places no one dared to go.
Her friends went down, but April stayed,
To snap more shots where corpses laid.
Then came a shout from deep below,
“Oh God—is that real?”—a voice of woe.
She rushed downstairs, her heart a drum,
What had her curious sisters become?
They stood in fear, their eyes like glass,
Staring beyond… into the past.
A jail cell stood with iron frame,
A mystery with no known name.
Within its bars, a metal box,
A ceiling hole, as cold as rocks.
She stepped in close—and gasped aloud,
For lying crushed, not wrapped in shroud—
A man was there, his fingers bent,
Still reaching where his lifeline went.
Authorities came, the tale unwound,
Of how this corpse had just been found.
Six days ago, a thief broke in,
To steal the scrap, a graveyard sin.
He saw the bars, mistook their form,
Not knowing death would soon transform.
Inside the cell, he swung his blade,
To cut the cords that lift had made.
But as he snipped, the box gave way,
And crushed him where he dared to lay.
His phone just inches from his grasp,
He died alone with futile gasp.
No cries were heard, no soul drew near,
Until the girls arrived in fear.
And though they came to snap decay,
They found a man whose life slipped away.
So tread with care where dead reside,
Not every haunt has bones to hide.
Some places scream with silent breath—
And lure the living close to death.