An ill-fated location
Doomed to be forever cursed
Tavern in the backwater
Empty chairs and empty rooms
Ol' George couldn't sell the damned thing
There was no profit to be made
This was no place to start a business
But the isolation soon proved a boon
Brothers of the Most Holy Redeemer
Humble Italian order of the church
Drawn there by its solitude
Made Ol' George an offer
One he sure could not refuse
Old stone house became a chapel
Brick on brick and stone on stone
Built a palace of worship and study
At least that's what they told us
What waxes must surely wane
Ilchester, after all, was cursed
After a century of prosperity
Enrollment slowly fell to naught
After the decline came abandonment
Neglect, decay and buildings fallen to ruin
The power of the image of the son on the cross
Proved to be powerless indeed
From the bowels of the earth deep below
The very foundations of Ilchester's church
The fiery fingers of the dark lord
Spread like some malignant disease
Cultists and acolytes of Satan
Had long prepared for this dark day
Reveling in the destruction they had sown
Offering sacrifice of flesh and blood
The house of god had become a house of hell
Where no man of Christ dare set his foot
Black hoods and bloodshot eyes
Swirling dance around the altar
Chanting ancient incantations
Praise the victory of the curse
The isolation has prevailed
A place of a darker sort of prayer
Though the Hell House is but a ruin
The tingle of dread unseen lingers still