In the depths of Dartmoor’s moors so drear, Where shadows cloak the path unclear, A sinister tale of dread and fear Holds captive those who wander near.
The winds do whisper and the ravens call, As ghostly fingers grasp and crawl, The Hairy Hands, a fiendish pall, Claim the souls of those who fall.
By moon’s pale light, the fog descends, And from the darkness, evil wends, A creeping force that twists and bends, Its wicked purpose never ends.
These hands of horror, gnarled and stark, Emerge from shadows cold and dark, Their touch a chill, a spectral mark, Leaving victims in their lonesome arc.
From the corners of the night they creep, Their ghostly grip forever steeped, In tales of dread, where nightmares seep, A haunting secret that Dartmoor keeps.
With fingers gnarled and nails like claws, They wrap around the neck, instill with awe, A suffocating grip, a deathly maw, The Hairy Hands exact their law.
Oh, traveler, heed the warning dire, The haunted road may well conspire, To summon forth the hands of fire, And drag you to the moorland’s mire.
Beware, dear soul, the Hairy Hands that haunt, For in the shadows they may taunt, The unsuspecting, hearts they daunt, Their chilling presence ever gaunt.
So when in Dartmoor’s twilight grey, Take heed of whispers borne astray, Avoid the path where demons play, And let not the Hairy Hands hold sway.
Grasping Shadows: A Ballad of the Hairy Hands
