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Poem

it began with a creak,
low and hollow,
as if the staircase exhaled a secret
meant only for me.

at first, i told myself it was nothing—
just the old bones of the house shifting,
just the wind brushing the eaves.
but then came the whisper:
soft, deliberate,
threading through the night like cold fingers.

“come closer,” it said.
i stayed still.

the air thickened.
my heart tapped out a rhythm of warnings,
but my feet moved anyway,
dragged by some unseen thread.
the stairs groaned louder with every step,
their song ancient, mournful, alive.

at the bottom, the dark opened wide—
a void where the walls used to be.
and there, in the center,
a door i had never seen,
its edges slick with something
that shimmered even in shadow.

my hand trembled as it touched the handle,
a warmth pulsing beneath my palm.
the door opened,
and i saw—
no, felt—
a thousand eyes turn toward me.

i slammed it shut,
but the whispers remain.
they follow me now,
each night,
each dream,
calling me back to the stairs.

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