The House at the Edge

In a village lost to time’s cruel hand,

Stood an old, forsaken house on cursed land.

The wind would howl, the windows creak,

And shadows danced where the walls were weak.

The locals whispered of a ghostly dame,

Whose life had ended in sorrow and shame.

Her face, they said, was pale as death,

And her whispers stole a child’s breath.

One stormy night, a traveller came,

Seeking shelter from the wind and rain.

He knocked on doors, but none would yield,

Till the house at the edge, with secrets sealed.

The door swung open with a mournful groan,

As if to say, “You’re not alone.”

He stepped inside, the air was cold,

And every corner felt ancient and old.

He lit a fire to chase away the gloom,

But shadows grew in every room.

A whisper then, so soft, so near,

“Leave this place, you don’t belong here.”

He turned around, but none he found,

Only silence, a dreadful sound.

The walls seemed closer, the air grew tight,

And he knew then, he’d not last the night.

Her face appeared in the fire’s dim light,

Eyes like voids, filled with endless night.

She moved with grace, a ghostly bride,

Her voice a wail from the other side.

“Why do you come, to where I rest?

This house is mine, as death’s cruel jest.”

He tried to flee, but the door was gone,

The night was endless, and so was the dawn.

In the village, come morning, they found the door,

But the traveller was seen nevermore.

And now they say, if you pass by that place,

You’ll hear the whispers, and see his face.

For the house at the edge, where shadows blend,

Holds the souls of those who enter, till the end.