In the quiet town of Hollow Glen,
Where the moon hides now and then,
A shadow stirs when the sun dips low,
And follows where the brave dare not go.
By day, it clings to walls and stone,
A shapeless form, yet not alone.
By night, it stretches, tall and wide,
A creeping dread, no place to hide.
Old Ezra warned with his trembling voice,
“Stay indoors; you’ve no other choice.
The Shadow feeds on whispered fears,
And grows with every passing year.”
But young Elaine, so bold, so proud,
Laughed at whispers among the crowd.
“A shadow’s tricks? A child’s game.
I’ll light a torch and end its claim.”
Through twisted streets, her steps were light,
Her torch ablaze in the starless night.
But the flame dimmed as the air grew cold,
And the Shadow’s grip began to unfold.
It whispered secrets, dark and deep,
Of buried truths and souls that weep.
It knew her sins, her guilt, her shame,
And called her softly by her name.
“Elaine,” it crooned, “why flee from me?
I am the truth you fear to see.
I know your heart, your hidden lies,
The mask you wear, your silent cries.”
Her torch fell, its glow snuffed out,
Her courage twisted into doubt.
The Shadow wrapped her in its embrace,
A mirror of her haunted face.
By dawn, the town was quiet again,
But Elaine was gone from Hollow Glen.
A warning whispered on the breeze:
“Beware the Shadow—its grip won’t ease.”
And so it roams, both near and far,
A phantom born beneath each star.
It follows those who hide their pain,
Their guilt, their grief—it seeks Elaine.