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But Only Echoes Whispering of Death

But Only Echoes Whispering of Death The moon hung low, a fractured, sickly white, Above the mansion draped in clinging vine. A silence deep, not peaceful but of fright, Where shadows stretched and twisted out of line. The ancient stones exhaled a chilling damp, As if the earth itself did hold its breath. No friendly flicker from a distant lamp, But only echoes whispering of death. I stood before the oak and rusted gate, My heart a drumbeat in the hollow air. A sense of wrongness sealed by cruelest fate, A creeping dread too heavy now to bear. The wind, a sigh through skeletal, bare trees, Brought scent of mold and stagnant, stagnant pools, A subtle chill that settled on the breeze, And mocked the reason with its ancient rules. Within those walls, where tapestry did fray, And portraits watched with eyes of painted glass, There lingered specters of a yesterday, Whose mournful forms no living man could pass. A chamber locked, where something foul took hold, A secret kept beneath the rotting floor, A whispered story, too chilling to be told, That knocks upon the mind forevermore. My lantern cast a weak and trembling ray, That struggled hard against the endless gloom. I felt a presence stealing me away, Into the confines of that spectral room. And knew then, with a certainty profound, That sanity had fled this cursed ground, And only madness waits where I am bound, Where no reprieve or saving light is found. ©Jack Cavendish 2026