There's a house at the end of Carver Street—
All broken windows and boarded-up doors.
An old, rusted van sulks in the driveway,
With its small, black windows all covered in tape,
To hide things.
 

There's a chimney on the house at the end of Carver Street—
A few of the bricks have fallen out,
So that it looks like it's smiling through rotten teeth;
But the backyard is nice and has lots of trees and little white flowers,
And bones sticking up through the grass. 
 

It's not like all the other houses;
No, something lives in that house—
It creeps behind the curtains,
Remembering and watching,
And it's lonely.
 

They get worse after dark—the noises—
Because the little white fence can't keep them in,
Not the crying,
Not the whispers,
Not the cutting sounds.
 

We all remember Carver Street,
And that house.
 

Yes, we've all been there before—
Down the rotten stairs,
Through the cobwebs with the fat, black spiders,
In the very, very dark room in the basement,
With all of the knives and sharp things.
 

And in the backyard.
 

We all know that house at the end of Carver Street,
Because we're the ones who have never left.