In The Black

The walls exhale in the hush of night,

A hollow gasp, a creeping blight.

Shadows writhe in twisted play,

Murmuring truths the dead won’t say.

—

Laughter echoes—thin, off-key,

A sound that scrapes, that should not be.

Footsteps fall, yet none are there,

Still, something waits beyond the stair.

—

Fingers brush—too cold, too light,

A fleeting touch that grips too tight.

The mirror quivers, breath runs thin,

A vacant face, a weeping grin.

—

Above, the attic groans in pain,

Wood and sinew snap in twain.

The floorboards bow, the ceiling sighs,

The house, awake, with watchful eyes.

—

Don't look back. Don't make a sound.

It stirs beneath. It haunts the ground.

Speak its name, invite it near,

It steals your breath… and leaves you here.

—

Alone.

Forever.

Author’s Note

Horror has always been more than just a genre—it’s a lingering presence, a whisper in the dark, a shadow just beyond reach. In the Black was born from that creeping sensation we’ve all felt when the night grows too quiet, when the air feels too thick, when something unseen stirs just beyond the edge of our perception.

This piece is a tribute to the slow, suffocating dread that seeps into the bones, to the houses that remember, to the ghosts that never really leave. It’s meant to be read in the hush of midnight, when the walls feel too close and the silence is anything but empty.

Dare to listen.

— Jason Benskin