There stands a house on Hollow Lane,
Where broken windows weep with rain.
The floorboards sigh, the walls grow thin,
As if they breathe and pull you in.
A widow lived here, long ago,
With candlelight’s eternal glow.
She whispered secrets to the night,
And dreamt of ghosts beyond her sight.
But houses dream, as people do,
And soon, it dreamt of something new—
A voice that echoed through its halls,
A shadow stretching on the walls.
It dreamt of footsteps, soft yet clear,
Of someone knocking—someone near.
It dreamt of laughter, fresh and bright,
And then, it dreamt of endless night.
One evening, when the sky was red,
A stranger came, as daylight bled.
She stepped inside, her breath was still,
As if bewitched against her will.
The doors behind her locked with ease,
The air was thick, it did not breathe.
The stairs, they creaked, they called her name—
A voice within, yet not the same.
The house had dreamt, and so it spun
A tale where fear and fate were one.
The stranger climbed, she could not halt,
The dream was real—and she was caught.
A room stood waiting, still and wide,
A mirror stretching side to side.
She saw herself, but not alone—
Behind her stood a figure, grown.
A widow dressed in tattered black,
Her hollow eyes stared, sunken back.
She raised a hand, she whispered low:
“The house has dreamt, and now you’ll know.”
The stranger turned—too late, too late!
For hands like fog sealed up her fate.
The house had dreamt of flesh and bone,
And now, at last, she was its own.
And so it dreams, from dusk till dawn,
For someone new to lead it on.
A whisper calls from Hollow Lane—
Do you hear it? Come again…