"Who are you, what are you?" I wondered, gazing into their eyes,
As we stood in the heart of the woods, where the old mansion lies.
An ancient edifice of forgotten tales, under storm-laden skies,
A group of friends, drawn in, despite the fear it belies.
Creaking doors part, revealing chambers draped in despair,
Broken glass crunches beneath our feet, disturbing the stagnant air.
Whispers, soft and spectral, wrap around us like a snare,
"Leave...," they implore, "this mansion does not care."
Mirrors cracked and tarnished, reflecting specters of the past,
In their ghostly stares, a chilling tale is cast.
"Do you not fear," the whisper murmurs, holding us fast,
"The endless darkness, the growing shadow it has amassed?"
Laughter fades to silence, fear now takes the stage,
In the mansion's heart, we are but actors in its page.
From the shadows, the whispers emerge, their warnings engage,
"Beware, the lost may never be found," echoes their cage.
Corridor to room, room to hall, the mansion's call echoes in the dark,
Each whisper a verse, in this haunting lark.
Their fate sealed within its weathered bark,
Our friends, now mere shadows, leave their chilling mark.
Whispers in the shadows, replaying the dreadful tale,
Of the mansion abandoned, where living faces pale.
A caution to those who venture beyond the trail,
For in this spectral theatre, the ghosts forever prevail.
