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