The Blood Countess.

On a warm summers day,
In fifteen sixty,
Was born a new baby,
Named Elizabeth Bathory,
Bore into a family,
Which was large nonetheless,
She would later lose her mind,
To become the Blood Countess,
It all began,
When she became twenty five,
She would begin to take girls,
Then she would take their lives,
One by one,
She would hack and she would saw,
Bathing in their blood,
To become forever more,
Ten, Twenty,
She continued to kill,
Not for their blood,
But for the shock and the thrill,
It was then in the winter,
Of Sixteen Ten,
The old Thurzó family,
Would accuse her once again,
Bathory and her servents,
Were then there tried,
Where all but Elizabeth,
Were sentenced and died,
The Blood Countess,
Was sent to her home,
Where she was bricked inside,
All on her own,
Four years later,
It was then learnt,
That Bathory was dead,
And in hell she burnt,

Even though she perished without witnesses;

It was later said,
Before she died,
That she made one last promise.

One day she would return.