The Whispering Night

The night was deep, the moon was pale,
A lonely wind began its tale.
Through empty streets and silent trees,
It carried whispers on the breeze.

A house stood old beyond the lane,
Its windows cracked like tears of pain.
No lamp was lit, no soul inside,
Yet shadows moved where ghosts might hide.

The door swung slow with creaking sound,
As if some steps were walking round.
The wooden floor began to sigh,
Like someone there who could not die.

A clock ticked loud upon the wall,
Each second echoing through the hall.
But strangely though the clock was old,
Its hands were still, its face was cold.

Then from the stairs a murmur grew,
A voice that no one ever knew.
It whispered low, it whispered near,
A breath of darkness filled with fear.

“Who walks tonight within my place?
Who dares to see my hidden face?”
The voice was thin, yet sharp as ice,
Like some forgotten sacrifice.

The curtains danced without the wind,
The hallway twisted deep within.
A picture fell upon the floor,
Though none had touched the frame before.

The mirror cracked with silent scream,
As though it broke a haunted dream.
Inside the glass a shape appeared,
A hollow face that slowly stared.

Its eyes were dark like endless night,
Its skin as pale as winter’s light.
It raised a hand, so thin and slow,
And pointed where I should not go.

Yet still my trembling feet moved on,
Though every spark of hope was gone.
The hallway stretched, the candles cried,
And all the shadows multiplied.

The whisper grew inside my ear,
A chilling word I feared to hear.
“You came at last,” the spirit said,
“The living stand among the dead.”

The walls then shook with sudden force,
The darkness took its final course.
The ghostly face began to rise,
With burning rage within its eyes.

The moonlight broke across the room,
Revealing shapes of silent doom.
The air grew cold, the night grew long,
As if the world itself was wrong.

Then suddenly a distant bell
Rang through the house like warning’s spell.
The shadow screamed, the spirit fled,
And silence wrapped the fear and dread.

The morning sun began to glow,
Its golden light both soft and slow.
The haunted house stood still once more,
A quiet shell as long before.

Yet on the dusty wooden floor
Were footsteps leading to the door.
Not one set… but many more.

And on the wall in fading light
A message written in the night:

“Return again when darkness calls…
We are still waiting in these halls.”