| Twelve miles into the mountains
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| A house with a neighbor-less wooded lot
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| All the animals in hibernation
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| No sound but the wind and the ghosts that haunt
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| Here in this place
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| Is a man of eighteen
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| Out to prove god exists
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| Through demonic activity
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| He turns off all the lights
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| And braces for the late nights
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| Of turning crosses upside down
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| Just to talk to the darkest spawn of hell
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| His hands shiver and swell
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| As he sees the door across the hall
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| Open and close itself
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| It started with the open doors, the open doors
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| Voices that I’ve never heard before, never heard before
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| Long nights hearing footsteps
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| Voices calling out his name
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| Cups flying off the table
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| The demons are here
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| And he is to blame
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| If you pray
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| For the demons to flee
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| The place that they stay
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| Then they’ll come back
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| With seven more than with which they came
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| Tranquility for two days
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| Before he called out their names
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| And they came back
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| Cutting arms and pulling shades
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| He filmed them through the night
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| Saying his name
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| Saying, «Down with your King.»
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| Candles that light themselves
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| Blood on the door frame
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| I’m here all alone
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| But it feels like I’m amongst a group of people
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| That want me dead
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| A warrant over my head
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| I got the proof I wanted
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| I got the proof I needed
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| I got the proof I wanted
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| They still watch me in my sleep
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| They still watch me sleep
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| They still watch me in my sleep
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| They still watch me sleep
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| I got the proof I wanted
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| They still watch me in my sleep
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| I got the proof I wanted
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| They still watch me sleep
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| I got the proof I wanted |