Seven Days

In a house of shadows, where secrets lie,
I entered, greeted by a creaking sigh.
The past lingered thick, a murky haze,
As I awaited counsel in the dim, eerie maze.

"Turn off your phone," the man decreed,
His voice a whisper, a solemn need.
"Why are you here?" he asked, eyes keen,
As I pondered the tale, dark and unseen.

The man departed, leaving me alone,
In the haunted space, with whispers sown.
Dead infants in jars, a haunting sight,
Echoes of the past, in the dim twilight.

"I'm listening," he said, returning near,
"Tell me your tale, let your fears clear."
And amidst the relics of forgotten lore,
I spilled my truth, to his attentive core.

"Not love, but a shadow's grasp," I confessed,
Once entwined, now torn, by fate's cruel test.
She delved into realms of the obscure,
With rituals grim, her intentions impure.

"Strange deeds in the kitchen," I recounted there,
Her morbid feast, a nightmare to bear.
Insects and animals, her macabre brew,
A twisted dance, in the pale moon's hue.

"In her garden, secrets buried deep,
A grave of whispers, where nightmares creep.
I unearthed the truth, in the dead of night,
Her twisted desires, a chilling sight."

"Do you possess her writings?" he inquired then,
A key to unlocking her darkened den.
"No, but pictures remain," I said in reply,
A glimpse into madness, where shadows lie.

"Her latest act, a note of dread,
A vow of possession, words unsaid.
My date, a witness to her dark game,
Lost to the shadows, her whispered claim."

"Print the writings," he urged with care,
"On parchment, old, handle with prayer.
Give me seven days, before you return,
To unveil the truth, and the lessons we'll learn."

So I left that house, with its secrets untold,
In search of answers, in shadows cold.
For in the depths of darkness, where nightmares reside,
Lies the key to freedom, where fears subside.