In the dead of night, when the moon’s aglow,
A figure wanders, silent and slow.
No eyes to see, no mouth to speak,
His hollow face so cold, so bleak.
He comes from shadows, where none may tread,
With whispers of fear in the air so dread.
The wind holds its breath, the trees bow low,
As his steps echo in the quiet glow.
His hollow gaze will pierce your soul,
It takes what’s left and makes you whole.
Not flesh, nor blood, but dreams he feeds,
A nightmare born of whispered needs.
In every room, he’s there to stare,
Beneath your bed, within the air.
His feet don’t touch the ground below,
He drifts where others dare not go.
If you hear the creak of the old floorboard,
Or catch a flicker of light that’s ignored,
Don’t call his name, don’t make a sound,
For in the dark, he’s all around.
When the clock strikes twelve, it’s too late to flee,
The Hollow-Faced Man’s eyes you’ll see.
And though his face is hollow, a void of night,
He’ll steal your soul and fade from sight.