In a grassy glade, far away, on the other side of the rugged, raging river,
There is a place within the woods, where your flesh begins to shiver.
Deep in Gnoll Country where unknown Shaman magics abound,
Is found the McGoohan clan, living ants like in a mound.
The steadfast double entrance doors are one foot thick
And from outside you can not even see a brick.
There are no sweet birds or flowers there,
The flattened forest floor is fauna bare.
When twighlight falls upon their land,
The midnight hour is close at hand.
Creatures creep in search of blood,
To terrorise the neighbourhood.

There were undead zombies, skeletons, ghouls, a spectre and a wight,
Who arose from their slumber and attacked throughout the night.
An unnatural, eerie fungal afterlight, pervaded all their halls,
And a sacrilegious zone of silence, stifled all of our calls.
But when their bones were beaten, they arose once more.
An eternal curse of ever living, upon their spirits core.
The cowering Cleric tried his best to make amends,
He fought within a circle with his trusty friends.
"I must consecrate this tomb." The Cleric said.
"I can't go on, danger, ringing in my head!"

Unreligious Fenswick McGoohan sat in his chamber on his chair,
Cursed to watch his trapped family die and haunt him there.
Within the dais of his secret underground treasure trove,
The sacred, sundered logs of a Tree of Life lie clove.
The accursed woodsman's magic axe was also there;
We took it for his miserable, forfeit life to spare.
The Shamans' warding runes upon his filthy floor,
Forever forced Fenswick from his inner iron door.
The humble Cleric bade him rest his weary head,
Upon the slumber of his ever warm cosy bed.
And with one fell swoop of his own blade,
Did end the curse that blight the glade.
And for his blasphemous mortal sin,
The soul of Fenswick shall remain,
And forever repent his evil deed,
That all others may take heed.