The Void

The night splits open with a breathless wail,

A scraping sound, like nails on rusted shale.

The walls ooze shadows thick as sin,

Something ancient stirs within.

—

The air—too still, unnervingly tight,

Reeks of decay, of stolen light.

Each breath you take, cursed and cold,

Like whispers from the grave’s dark fold.

—

A knock—three times, slow and deep,

Echoes through the house that sleeps.

No hands, no face, just something near,

Lurking close, feeding on fear.

—

Beneath the bed, the sheets grow wet,

A slither, a twitch—an unseen threat.

Limbs and eyes, grotesque, they stare,

Hungry shapes that fill the air.

—

The mirror cracks—not just a break,

But something crawls, a twisted shape.

Its grin, too wide, its skin too tight,

Eyes devour all in sight.

—

It moves like rot, like death reborn,

Fingers stretched, broken, and worn.

It touches you—your breath ignites,

Your soul consumed by endless night.

—

You try to scream, your voice won’t come,

Your body frozen, mind gone numb.

It slithers in beneath your skin,

Wearing you like its darkest sin.

—

The walls bleed red from its latest feast,

A sacrifice to the deceased.

Time collapses, terror grows,

A nightmare that the mind bestows.

—

Your body jerks, your thoughts unwind,

The horror feasts on what it finds.

And now it grins through your dead gaze—

A puppet lost in endless haze.

—

No dawn will break, no light will rise,

Just endless dark behind your eyes.

The void consumes all hope, all sight—

And you are nothing in the night.