Whispering Walls and Other Haunting Verses

by Emmanuel Komen

Whispering Walls

The house was old, the air was thin,
its bones of wood, its breath of sin.
The doors would sigh, the floorboards groan,
as if it longed to claim its own.
At night it whispered in the dark,
a voice that slithered, cold and stark.
It called my name, it knew my fears,
it traced my spine with unseen tears.
I tried to run, I tried to scream,
but walls can dream—oh, walls can dream.
And now my voice is lost inside,
where hollow things like me reside.

The Thing Beneath My Bed

At night it wakes, it waits, it grins,
long fingers tapping hollow hymns.
A shadow spills across the floor,
its breath a whisper—"Not alone."
Its eyes are pits of starving black,
its spine a cage, its mouth unhinged.
It moves in ways that flesh should crack,
yet bends and slithers, sleek and thin.
I dare not breathe, I dare not call—
for what if it is not the night,
but I, who do not belong at all?

It Crawls at Dusk

The sun drips red—one final breath,
the air is thick with coming death.
The trees bend low, the crows take flight,
for something wakes within the night.
It moves in ways that break the bone,
a silent thing, unseen, unknown.
Its hands too long, its grin too wide,
its hollow voice calls from inside.
You hear it whisper, soft and thin:
"Open the door… let me in."

The Hollow Man

He walks the fields where crows won’t go,
his breath is dust, his voice is low.
His fingers drag through dirt and bone,
his grin is wide, his eyes unknown.
He hums a song of hollow things,
of snapping necks and severed strings.
The wind will howl, the trees will sway,
but none will dare to speak his name.
And if you hear his call at night—
run.
But know, you won’t outrun the light.

The Thing That Wears My Face

It stands beyond the shattered glass,
where night is thick and time won’t pass.
Its fingers twitch, its head tilts twice,
its hollow mouth is filled with ice.
It knocks. Once. Twice. Then three and four—
a sound like bones against the door.
I hold my breath, I dare not see,
but something whispers—"Let me be."
I turn to run, my heart a race,
but in the mirror—it wears my face.