Attend, dear heart, and mark me well,
For I shall speak what few will tell—
Of that which dwells where shadows cling,
A soft and slow, unholy thing.
Beneath the stair, where light grows thin,
Where dust and silence settle in,
There lies a space both cold and bare—
And something else is living there.
It does not breathe as creatures do,
Nor cast a shape the eye may view,
Yet oft at night, when all is still,
It wakes, as though it has a will.
At first, ‘tis but a gentle sound—
A shift, a sigh, beneath the ground,
A creeping stir, a careful tread,
As though it walks where none have led.
You tell yourself, “It is the wood,
Old bones that creak as old things should,”
And yet… it comes when you draw near,
As though it knows. As though it hears.
Pray do not linger by that place,
Nor stoop to peer into its space,
For though ‘tis dark and void to sight,
You may be seen within that night.
For it has learned—oh yes, it learns—
The way a candle twists and burns,
The way a human pauses, still,
When seized by some unspoken ill.
And most of all, it learns your tread—
The weight, the rhythm of your step,
So that, in time, you scarce can tell
If it is you… or something else.
One eve, you’ll hear it on the stair—
A step… a pause… but none are there.
Another night, outside your room,
A breath that stirs the quiet gloom.
Then nearer still.
Then just behind.
A second shadow, misaligned.
It does not rush. It does not chase.
It only longs to take your place.
To stand where once your body stood,
To be mistaken as it would—
To wear your voice, your borrowed grace,
And leave you lost… in its dark place.
So bar the door, and quench the light,
And pray you sleep untouched by night—
Yet heed me well, for this is true:
It does not come—
until it’s you.
May 28
May 28, 2026 at 12:49 PM UTC
Attend, dear heart, and mark me well,
For I shall speak what few will tell—
Of that which dwells where shadows cling,
A soft and slow, unholy thing.
Beneath the stair, where light grows thin,
Where dust and silence settle in,
There lies a space both cold and bare—
And something else is living there.
It does not breathe as creatures do,
Nor cast a shape the eye may view,
Yet oft at night, when all is still,
It wakes, as though it has a will.
At first, ‘tis but a gentle sound—
A shift, a sigh, beneath the ground,
A creeping stir, a careful tread,
As though it walks where none have led.
You tell yourself, “It is the wood,
Old bones that creak as old things should,”
And yet… it comes when you draw near,
As though it knows. As though it hears.
Pray do not linger by that place,
Nor stoop to peer into its space,
For though ‘tis dark and void to sight,
You may be seen within that night.
For it has learned—oh yes, it learns—
The way a candle twists and burns,
The way a human pauses, still,
When seized by some unspoken ill.
And most of all, it learns your tread—
The weight, the rhythm of your step,
So that, in time, you scarce can tell
If it is you… or something else.
One eve, you’ll hear it on the stair—
A step… a pause… but none are there.
Another night, outside your room,
A breath that stirs the quiet gloom.
Then nearer still.
Then just behind.
A second shadow, misaligned.
It does not rush. It does not chase.
It only longs to take your place.
To stand where once your body stood,
To be mistaken as it would—
To wear your voice, your borrowed grace,
And leave you lost… in its dark place.
So bar the door, and quench the light,
And pray you sleep untouched by night—
Yet heed me well, for this is true:
It does not come—
until it’s you.
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