Beneath the floor, beyond the cracks,
Where shadows breathe and time turns black,
A whisper stirs, a silent mark—
The restless hands that wait in dark.
They skitter soft, they scrape, they slide,
Along the walls, they twist and glide.
No flesh, no bone, just fingers thin,
That beckon those who sleep within.
A cottage lost in forest deep,
Where weary travelers dream and sleep.
But in the gloom, beneath the bed,
Cold, unseen fingers trace the spread.
A touch so light, a breath so near,
A fleeting stroke behind the ear.
You turn, you stare—there’s nothing there,
Yet something lingers in the air.
The candle quakes, the window groans,
A muffled scratch against the stones.
The bedposts creak, the covers slide,
Something unseen is just outside.
The latch unlatches, slow and soft,
The door yawns wide, the wind blows lost.
A whisper hums—a rasping sigh—
The hands have found you where you lie.
They seek the still, they love the meek,
They coil round those too weak to speak.
A tightening grip, a breath drawn thin,
The hands have found a home within.
By morning’s light, the house stands bare,
No trace remains, no soul is there.
Just hollow beds and walls unscarred,
And hands that wait beneath the dark.