Deep in the heart of a forgotten wing,
A castle held secrets that made shadows sing.
Its halls were whispers, its walls seemed to breathe,
A tale of a room, no one could leave.
They called it the Void, where the lost ones would go,
Behind a door that refused to show.
No matter the maps, no matter the light,
The Room That Doesn’t Exist hid in the night.
A scholar named Mara, with curiosity bold,
Heard of this tale from legends of old.
By candle’s dim flicker, she studied and read,
Drawn to the room by the lure of dread.
Through cobwebbed corridors, she wandered alone,
Her footsteps a rhythm on echoing stone.
A draft whispered secrets, a cold hand caressed,
As if unseen phantoms were mocking her quest.
Then there it was, a door of black wood,
In a corner where no door ever should.
Its handle was brass, its frame etched with dread,
And whispers seeped from the cracks, as if fed.
“Enter, if you dare,” the air seemed to say,
As Mara, with trembling, pushed it away.
The room was a void, no walls, floor, or roof,
A chasm of nothing, devoid of all proof.
Yet from the shadows came shapes that were wrong,
Forms of the forgotten, humming a song.
Their faces were blurred, their voices askew,
And Mara felt something clawing through.
A mirror appeared, its surface like glass,
Reflecting a future that soon would pass.
It showed her a figure, gaunt and alone,
A captive of horrors her heart had not known.
The room began spinning, its laughter a knell,
A carnival ride straight into hell.
Mara screamed, but her voice turned to mist,
As she merged with the Room That Doesn’t Exist.
So if you should hear whispers while you persist,
Beware of the Room That Doesn’t Exist.
For once it finds you, you’ll pay the cost,
A soul in its void, forever lost.