In a house where the lanterns burned dim in the night,
Lived a woman alone in the flickering light.
With doors double-locked and the curtains drawn tight,
She feared the man who stayed out of sight.
But each time she turned, she could feel something near,
A whisper of breath, a shiver of fear.
Through the keyhole, she dared take a glance just to see,
And a motionless eye was staring back free.
She tried to ignore it, she tried to deny,
Yet each night it watched—just an eye, wide and dry.
No mouth ever whispered, no fingers took hold,
Just the patient, unblinking eye—black and cold.
One night, in her terror, she covered the hole,
Stuffed rags in the gaps, tried gaining control.
But silence was heavy, her pulse was too loud,
And the air in the room felt thick as a shroud.
Then knocking—so gentle—just once, then again,
A whispering scrape like the nails of dead men.
She held back a scream, she refused to reply,
And still, through the keyhole, remained that one eye.
The days turned to weeks, and her fear wouldn’t wane,
For even through cloth, she could feel the eye’s gaze.
She burned all the doors, she shattered the glass,
She fled from the house—but the eye would not pass.
For each place she traveled, each door she unlocked,
A new keyhole formed, and behind it, he watched.
In the dark of a hallway, in hotels unknown,
The man in the keyhole had found a new home.
So now when you enter a room for the night,
Make sure there’s no keyhole that’s catching the light.
For if there’s a gap, even barely a crack,
The man in the keyhole will know… you are back.