A poem about: Whisper's End, small town night clouds wind air moon stars dread dead she walks everyone inside their homes no light windows curtains closed don't look don't peep keep away from the windows remain in silence. streets eerie ghastly she walks alone pale white skin long dark hair slowly not even the dogs bark no sound at all they know who what lurks during the witching hour, evil vile uncanny power fog thick cool cold unearthly sounds and speak dreary strange bizarre she approaches doors at random and just stands talking in the speech voices and tones of ones long gone departed from the land of the living seeing if anyone was foolish enough to open door or window. her long nails she reeks of rot decay with something sweet appealing tempting slightly beneath the putrid odor trick a lure souls fools upon seeing her face would cause one to go utterly mad insane their eyes bursting blood fluid and some their whole insides would melt the one who walks spares no man woman child nor beast enemy to all that lives thrives resides among the living whomever door she scratches or coughs blood the doors of the home she scratches is a warning to leave if she coughs blood onto the door it meant either one or all those within the household were marked for death specter phantom wraith entity icy no one knows who or what she is or was beware calling macabre otherworldly strange

Whisper's End, small town night clouds wind air moon stars dread dead she walks everyone inside their homes no light windows curtains closed don't look don't peep keep away from the windows remain in silence. streets eerie ghastly she walks alone pale white skin long dark hair slowly not even the dogs bark no sound at all they know who what lurks during the witching hour, evil vile uncanny power fog thick cool cold unearthly sounds and speak dreary strange bizarre she approaches doors at random and just stands talking in the speech voices and tones of ones long gone departed from the land of the living seeing if anyone was foolish enough to open door or window. her long nails she reeks of rot decay with something sweet appealing tempting slightly beneath the putrid odor trick a lure souls fools upon seeing her face would cause one to go utterly mad insane their eyes bursting blood fluid and some their whole insides would melt the one who walks spares no man woman child nor beast enemy to all that lives thrives resides among the living whomever door she scratches or coughs blood the doors of the home she scratches is a warning to leave if she coughs blood onto the door it meant either one or all those within the household were marked for death specter phantom wraith entity icy no one knows who or what she is or was beware calling macabre otherworldly strange

In the quiet of small town night,
Where clouds and moon engage in flight,
The stars a distant, eerie gleam,
And winds weave tales through whispered seams.

Inside, the streets hold ghastly air,
As shadows stretch with silent dare;
She walks, draped in spectral white,
Her hair a veil of endless night.

The dogs, aware, dare not to bark,
And silence sings its chilling arc;
An entity of dread untamed,
In dreams, the unmarked nevernamed.

Fog thick and cool as icy breath,
Accompanies her dance of death;
She speaks in tones of long-lost kin,
Her presence pries through bolt and pin.

At doors she pauses, whispers low,
A siren's call from earth below;
A scratch, a cough—omen of fate,
A mark that none may soon abate.

Her nails hold promise of decay,
Yet sweet illusion masks her sway,
To trick the senses, tempt the weak,
Who dare upon her face to peek.

Madness follows those who dare,
Their screams entwined with frigid air;
Her laughter fills the hollow night,
A dance of doom in ghostly light.

Beware the one who walks unbidden,
From realms where sanity lies hidden;
For all who cross her shadowed path,
Will join the echoes of her wrath.

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In the quiet of small town night, Where clouds and moon engage in flight, The stars a distant, eerie gleam, And winds weave tales through whispered seams. Inside, the streets hold ghastly air, As shadows stretch with silent dare; She walks, draped in spectral white, Her hair a veil of endless night. The dogs, aware, dare not to bark, And silence sings its chilling arc; An entity of dread untamed, In dreams, the unmarked nevernamed. Fog thick and cool as icy breath, Accompanies her dance of death; She speaks in tones of long-lost kin, Her presence pries through bolt and pin. At doors she pauses, whispers low, A siren's call from earth below; A scratch, a cough—omen of fate, A mark that none may soon abate. Her nails hold promise of decay, Yet sweet illusion masks her sway, To trick the senses, tempt the weak, Who dare upon her face to peek. Madness follows those who dare, Their screams entwined with frigid air; Her laughter fills the hollow night, A dance of doom in ghostly light. Beware the one who walks unbidden, From realms where sanity lies hidden; For all who cross her shadowed path, Will join the echoes of her wrath.