In the attic, beneath a moonlit glow,
Lay a book with whispers soft and low.
Bound in leather, with pages torn,
Its eerie presence chilled to the bone.
Its words were scrawled in a trembling hand,
A cryptic tale from a cursed land.
“Read me not,” the first page warned,
“Or face the fate of those forlorned.”
Curiosity burned like a phantom flame,
As shadows danced and whispered names.
Each verse revealed a chilling plight,
Of those who dared disturb the night.
A maiden fair with hair of gold,
Who read of riches untold.
But greed had claimed her fragile soul,
Now she wanders, a wraith on patrol.
A scholar wise, with a curious mind,
Hoping secrets of the past to find.
But the diary’s truths consumed his sight,
Now his eyes glow with ghostly light.
The final tale spoke of despair,
A reader trapped in a spectral lair.
Their soul consumed, their body chained,
To guard the book where horrors reigned.
The pages writhed, alive with dread,
The warnings echoing in the reader’s head.
But as they closed the book in haste,
A mark appeared—a cursed taste.
Now, in shadows, their whispers creep,
Their dreams invaded when they sleep.
Beware the book, its luring fire,
For you may be the next cryptic scribe.