When the land was perceived as new, and owned by the British,

With barely a road, the people still skittish.

There was a land in Pennsylvania, now known as Bedford;

Called for the surname of a Lord known as Edward.

 

Children of the lowly and the poor, often went missing;

They were warned of beast in the woods and were assumed not listening.

They disappeared by the dozen, but no one bothered to care.

This is a dangerous land, assuming they were eaten by bear.

 

Finally, the wrong child vanished, a son of the Lord.

He proclaimed his plea for help, offering a reward.

Men and women from all stations, far and wide,

Took up the call for help, standing side by side.

 

They walked through the woods, calling the boy’s name.

They walked for miles in the pouring rain.

On the third day they found it, on a hill by the church.

A cottage built in secret, made from burnt birch.

 

They looked in the opening, where a window should be

And are now scared from the memory of what cannot be unseen.

There they were, all the children taken over the years.

The men who found the home were brought to tears.

 

They were displayed in a way as if for tea.

Hands on their laps, sitting knee to knee.                      

Except their mouths were sewn shut and they had no eyes.

Their limbs swapped with other, and the room was thick with flies.

The smell of rot and decay was suffocating.

Some have been there so long their skin was disintegrating

Though a fire burned, there was a chill.

All but the bugs remained completely still.

 

The children were dead but for the Lord’s son.

Nailed to his chair and looking to be stunned.

With no eyes to speak of, he never made a sound;

They all feared to approach him, even the hound.

 

When they confronted him and removed the nails;

They were startled by a sudden yell.

Not from the men, or even the boy;

But from the corner came the cry of joy.

 

Laughing and clapping, the woman jeered.

Finally having an audience, the woman was cheered.

She raised from her chair and fell to her knees.

Knowing what came next, she didn’t bother to plea.

 

The men took her to the church, unsure what to do.

She cackled and raved as the autumn winds blew.

The priest came out and gave the orders.

Tie her to a beam and burn the church to smolders.

 

As the flames rose, they cheered the death of the villain.

Until they heard the cries of children.

They rushed to open the doors to save the innocent,

But through the flames the witch gave a look of insolence.

 

Melting and burning she sang her vowel.

“Though you may burn me, the church will not fall down.

This place will be a vessel holding my spirit;

And will never be a be a place of worship for now you fear it.  

 

I have taken your children, for now and ever.

They will remain with me throughout my endeavors.

I will steal the light from your sky;

And the soul of any child who catches my eye.

Now flea from me and spread the word.

But it does you no good, my voice cannot be unheard.”

 

Those watching in horror, closed the door

And as the flames died away, the witch meant what she swore.

The church remains still to this day;

Of the souls of the children, who is to say.

 

In the town of Bedford, children still disappear.

The parents never find the bodies in this town of fear.

Now when a child claims of a bump in the night;

The parents believe them, shutting their house up tight.

 

Though in vain, the parents now listen.

But if they’ve caught her eye, they always go missing.

As was proclaimed, her words have never stopped ringing.

And on cool autumn nights, children can still be heard singing.