Wayside, inn of the cursed
A family sick and perverse
A mad, supernatural clan
With grim, diabolical plans

You're inside their nest
Inhale the fetid stink of death!

Daughter of necromancy
Enticing men to their graves
Son of insanity
Behind the curtain he waits

Just sit right down, relax
You feel the hammer crack your skull!

Wall stained with gore
Below the old trap door
Doomed souls on massacre trail
Exist no more
Dispossessed
From the tragic mortal coil
Buried beneath
The apple orchard soil