In a house on the hill, behind ivy-twined gates,
Stood a room filled with whispers and curious fates.
The walls, deep in shadow, were cracked and decayed,
Yet voices still murmured from those who had stayed.
“Come closer,” they beckoned, in soft, chilling sighs,
“We’ll tell you our secrets, we’ll show you the lies.”
The air tasted dusty, of sorrow and age,
And the echoes of laughter turned brittle with rage.
A woman named Eleanor entered one night,
Drawn in by a flicker of flickering light.
The candle she carried burned weak in the gloom,
Yet shadows still danced in that whispering room.
“We’ve waited,” they murmured, “so patient, so long.”
“Join us and hear our forgotten song.”
The floorboards beneath her let out a dull groan,
And suddenly Eleanor was no longer alone.
Figures half-formed, with their faces askew,
Slipped from the walls as the candlelight grew.
Some wept, some grinned, some hovered midair,
Their whispers entwining like threads of despair.
“We spoke and we listened, we told and we heard,
And now you must stay—you must give us your word.”
But Eleanor faltered, she turned to the door,
Only to find it was there no more.
The whispers grew hungry, they curled through her mind,
They pressed into memories, darkly entwined.
And Eleanor, trembling, tried not to speak,
For she knew that her voice would make her too weak.
But the walls—they listened, they swallowed her whole,
Her whisper now stitched to the room’s endless soul.
So heed this warning when night starts to fall:
Never, oh never, heed whispers that call.