Beyond the trees, where cold winds wail,
There stands a house, both dark and pale.
Its windows weep with ghostly gleam,
And whisper secrets in your dream.
At dusk, the voices start to rise,
Like echoes trapped beneath the skies.
A calling soft, yet filled with dread—
It knows your name, it calls you dead.
You walk, though trembling in your skin,
A voice too sweet pulls you within.
The door yawns wide, the air turns black,
No sooner in—there’s no way back.
The halls stretch long, the walls seem thin,
You hear them breathing from within.
A mirror cracks, a shadow sways,
A thousand eyes in darkened haze.
The stairs, they twist in endless bends,
Each step you take, the air suspends.
A handprint forms upon the glass,
A voice behind you starts to laugh.
The portraits blink, their lips take shape,
They whisper tales you can’t escape.
The attic calls, the floorboards groan,
The house is speaking through the bone.
You climb, possessed, to heed its call,
The door creaks wide—no room at all.
A gaping void, a swirling black,
You take one step.
You can’t turn back.
The house is silent. Not a sound.
Another name fades in the ground.