whisper in the hollow

In the vale where the dead winds moan,

Beneath a sky of blood and stone,

There stands a house with windows blind,

That dreams of souls it’s left behind.

Its crooked spires pierce the gloom,

A tomb that dares to be a room.

The ivy clings like strangling hands,

And weeps with rain from cursed lands.

A clock that chimes but never ticks,

Its hands are rusted iron sticks.

It sings at dusk a lullaby—

For things that stir, but should not try.

The hearth is cold, the portraits sigh,

Their eyes too wide, they never die.

One bears your face—though aged and pale—

A mirror trapped behind the veil.

You feel it first—a breath, a thread,

That coils around your heart like dread.

The floorboards creak not under weight,

But whisper warnings far too late.

The air grows thick, the silence screams,

The shadows twist into your dreams.

A bride of ash with hollow chest

Ascends the stair and will not rest.

She points to you with fingers bare,

Her mouth a wound, her voice a prayer:

“Stay with me now, the hour is near.

The house is hungry—drawn by fear.”

You try to run, but roots entwine,

The walls themselves now drink the brine

Of blood that leaks from nose and nail—

Your name now ink upon its tale.

And when they come at break of day,

The house is gone—swept clean away.

But in the soil where black roses grow,

A heartbeat hums from deep below