This is a dream I've had several times and it always leaves me wondering 'why'.
(I don't drink alcohol so the wine is a surprise too!) I was brought up in a house that was haunted.

Whose hand was I holding last night when I laid down
and felt my hand squeezed tightly though no one was around?
A chill raced down my spine! I’d only had a little wine.
Who made the footsteps behind me? Who pulled sheets off of my bed?
There isn’t anyone else in this house; all the others-ancient-are dead.
Guess you wonder if I am sane. What right do you have to complain?
Are there pictures in your house with eyes that move with you?
If not, then come to my place and they’ll follow you all through.
No one else dares stay the night ‘cause they’re afraid they’ll die of fright.
Whose hand was that creeping all over this haunted house?
Whenever I first saw it mistook it for a mouse . . .
rotten, been severed long ago. To whom it belonged, I don’t know.
The old harp in the parlor plays a note every half-hour.
Although there’s a garden, I have yet to see a flower
for there the lady spied her guy and cursed the pair--it’s obvious why.
Whose hand was that choking the breath of life from me,
leaving horrible fingerprints as a warning of what would be?
The old, marvelous mansion (which has many a room)
tries to stamp out happiness . . . leaving only room for gloom.
But why run from things unseen when I can be the mansions’ queen?
Whose hand sought to trip me as I walked down the stairs?
In this bleak old building, is there anyone who cares?
How can I make myself brave when, in the cellar, something’s digging a grave?
Why do I still hear the ringing of shots killing a faithless man?
Oh why do I hear the crying of a child o’er and o’er again?
They say she saw the horrible sight, shaking hysterically all thru the night.
Whose hand held the fatal gun and what did the child see?
She saw her father and the maid bloody beneath a willow tree.
Covered in blood from head to toe to find her mother she hadn’t far to go.
Her mother, suicidal, had both hands clutched into fists . . .
nearby was a gun and the knife she had brandished to slash her wrists.
The little mistress didn’t leave but later took a match, lit her sleeve.
There were screams all o’er the mansion a piercing scream comes to mind.
I easily remember her, the child I’d raised as mine
who was, unfortunately, crippled in mind and to this mansion been confined.
Whose hand was I holding when I kneeled at her grave?
What a creepy sensation felt like the mansions’ slave!
This house had become such a part of me I couldn’t run, was unable to flee.
As I climb the winding staircase going ever so high,
I know that I am nearing the time for me to die.
As I near the noose hung by the hand, I’m still confused. Do you understand?