For tonight we’ve a tale where the daylight dies.
From Where Nightmares Live, our book newly born,
Comes a ghostly old legend, of sorrow and scorn.
Now Thomas Milwood, a bricklayer proud,
Sat in a pub midst a rowdy crowd.
But this cold night of January’s chill,
His patience was gone, he’d had his fill.
He slammed his mug, the chatter stopped,
Every laughing mouth was dropped.
“Be careful out there!” his friends did say,
But Thomas just scoffed and walked away.
Down Black Lion Lane he went alone,
To his parents’ house near cobblestone.
For whispers spread through Hammersmith town,
Of a ghostly curse that had people down.
White as snow, and tall as a mast,
It haunted the church where shadows cast.
The people claimed it choked and cried,
Till even the bravest stayed inside.
A butcher’s son had once been caught,
For dressing as ghost—just tricks, they thought.
But when a woman pregnant died,
The town went mad, their fear amplified.
“Capture the ghost!” the posters read,
“Alive or dead, avenge the dead!”
So men with guns began to roam,
While others dared not leave their home.
Thomas mocked them all with pride,
“No ghost is real, they’ve lied and lied!”
Yet fate would play a cruel, dark jest,
As Thomas set out on his final quest.
His sister begged, “Go guard your wife!”
He sighed, “Alright, to save my life!”
He donned his clothes—bricklayer’s white,
And vanished into foggy night.
Behind a bush, crouched Francis Smith,
A taxman armed, awaiting myth.
He too believed the ghost was near,
So clutching his gun, he shook with fear.
Then Thomas saw that hidden shade,
And charged ahead, unafraid.
But Francis, thinking ghost had come,
Pulled the trigger—his fear went numb.
One shot rang out—so loud, so clear,
And silence swallowed every ear.
Thomas fell, his life was done,
The ghost was gone, there was none.
His sister Anne, with dreadful cries,
Found her brother’s lifeless eyes.
The townsmen came, their hearts struck cold,
The tragic truth began to unfold.
Francis Smith, the man who fired,
Was seized, condemned, and then required
To face the court for murder’s name—
Yet mercy softened England’s flame.
A year he served, then set aside,
While justice pondered where truth lied.
And from that case, laws soon arose,
For self-defense, if danger shows.
As for the ghost that sparked the fright,
The real prankster confessed one night—
A shoemaker filled with spiteful flame,
Scaring his town for childish blame.
So ends the tale of fear and frost,
Where reason blurred, and life was lost.
Remember, dear dreamers, wherever you live,
That’s Where Nightmares Live.