NOTE: Here are the words to a section of a choral suite I’ve been working on. It’s about an episode from my distant family history—a tortured soul who tortured others. She died circa 1915, and from her came some who loved and some who hated.

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The Creeping

Hers, the suffering soul
Passed it on, don’t you know,
As do so many souls
Who break the Golden Rule.

Though she’d given them the song
That they’d celebrate e’er long,
They’d remember years of wrongs
From her old tortured soul.

Though the boys heard she was dead,
Still they could not shake the dread
They’d suffered long on her homestead
And could it now be over?

She was hateful.
Scornful.
No one’s really mournful.
Sad for her,
Not for me.
If she’s dead,
We’ll finally be free.

We must know if she is dead,
Lying there upon her bed.
Short straw goes in to bite her on the toe.

Straws were drawn
And the short straw lost.
He must go in, whate’er the cost.
He slipped into her room
And started creeping.

Step by step, he crossed the floor,
Halfway there, now a little more.
Bit her toe and bit it hard.
They all ran into the yard.

Did she
Did she
Did she move?

I didn’t
Didn’t
Didn’t see.

Did anybody see if she moved?

I saw.

Say it again.

I saw.

What did you see?

She
She
Did not
Move.

She did not move.

She
Did not
Move.