Through hollow halls of stone and dust,
Where echoes whisper tales unjust,
A traveler walked with weary tread,
Through ruins long since left for dead.
His lantern cast a feeble glow,
On crumbling walls and floors below.
Yet in the dark, where shadows bled,
Soft footsteps followed where he tread.
He paused and turned, but none were there,
Just swirling dust and empty air.
Yet closer came that phantom sound,
Soft steps upon the ancient ground.
Each step he took, the sound would stay,
Matching pace, not far away.
Yet when he stopped, the steps were gone,
As if the silence led them on.
He whispered low, “Who walks with me?”
But silence held its mystery.
Then, suddenly, a breath—too near—
A voice behind him sighed, “I’m here.”
The lantern dimmed, its flame grew weak,
A chill ran swift across his cheek.
The air grew thick, a heavy weight,
As if the walls could taste his fate.
A whispered laugh—a hushed reply—
Drifted low, yet close nearby.
He turned once more, his breath held tight,
And met the depths of endless night.
A shadow stood where none had been,
A hollow shape—too long, too thin.
Its fingers stretched like withered trees,
And with each step, it stole the breeze.
The traveler’s voice refused to rise,
Terror burning in his eyes.
The footsteps—his—were not his own,
They’d left his feet, yet still had grown.
Now echoing forth without his stride,
They marched ahead—his steps had lied.
And with a grin so black, so wide,
The shadow beckoned him inside.
His lantern died, the dark uncurled,
It wrapped him deep and hushed the world.
And when the morning sun had spread,
The traveler’s steps were lost instead.
The ruins stood in hollow peace,
But in the dark, the sounds won’t cease.
For now the walls will softly hum—
His vanishing footsteps, yet to come.