In twilight's grip, the house stands still, A silhouette against the bruised horizon,Windows like hollow eyes,Gazing, watching, whispering secrets Of shadows that dance in the corners of memory.
Creaking floorboards sigh beneath her steps,Each echo a ghost, a wisp of sorrow,Walls adorned with the breath of time,Paint peeling like the skin of forgotten dreams,Here, silence thunders, a heavy shroud of dread.
In the attic, dust-laden whispers swirl,A girl with dreams entwined in cobwebs,She wanders through rooms of fading laughter,Where laughter once bloomed, now lingers decay,Phantoms play hide and seek with her heart.
Mirrors reflect not her face, but shadows,Figures that flicker, like candlelight in storms,A tapestry woven with sorrow's threads,Each stitch a story of the lost and the yearning,In this house, life and death intertwine, a dance.
As night deepens, the air thickens with dread,She feels the chill of unseen hands,Caressing her spine, a lover's embrace,Yet terror blooms in the garden of her soul,For in this haunted house, she is never alone.
Her breath mingles with the sigh of the past,A haunting melody that lingers and weaves,In the stillness, she finds her reflection,Not in the glass, but in the whispers of walls,A girl, a ghost, a memory that never fades.
