Echoes Below
Beneath the crawlspace where linoleum curls from rot,Murmurs twist like cigarette smoke, never caught.Night thickens in corners, too quiet, too cold,As ancient dread rustles the walls, brave and bold.No comfort in the humming of fridges or cars passing by,Every whisper is a question, a dare, a warning—why?Soft static in the carpet, a shadow that never leaves,Hints of laughter gone wrong, and hands wiped on dirty sleeves.
Not every voice belongs to the living, not every breath is earned,Some echo from the cracks in the floorboards, where innocence is burned.Rabbits? Or just madness, a trick of the house’s spine?Hard to tell, as the air thickens, sweet with the stink of time.Toys rattle under beds, attic stairs creak in shame,All the while, something small and clever is whispering your name.History gets rewritten by the softest of feet,Horror wears a plush disguise, the trap is always sweet.
No priest, no exorcist, no prayer at the door,Can banish the darkness that stains the corridor.It’s just a rumor, a stutter, a rumor’s decay—Yet no one sleeps easy when the bunnies come out to play.Every murmur grows teeth, every echo finds a host,And what crawls in the shadows is never just a ghost.Something’s always watching, always close, always low—Call it fear, call it legend, or just echoes below.