In the quiet town where the cold winds creep,
Whispers linger where shadows sleep.
A tale is told when the night grows thin,
Of the hollow-faced woman with a stitched-up grin.
She walks the streets when the stars burn low,
Draped in a veil as pale as snow.
Her eyes are voids, her lips are tight,
Sewn in silence by hands of night.
They say she knocks on doors past three,
A quiet tap—one, two, then three.
If you should answer, hush your breath,
Or she will gift you lips of death.
A seamstress once, her fate was spun,
By wicked hands, her thread undone.
She stitched her face to hide her woe,
And now she roams where lost souls go.
If you hear a whisper, soft and thin,
Like rustling thread against your skin,
Lock your doors, let candles glow—
For the hollow-faced woman walks below.
But if you see her shadow tall,
Pressed like ink against the wall,
Turn away—don’t meet her gaze,
Or wear her smile for endless days.