Haunted Attic

Darkness spreads across the room, a haunted attic's silent tomb,
A flickering bulb fights to stay, casting shadows where they may.

In the corner, cold and still, a doll awaits with vacant will,
Its porcelain hands clutch the box, ancient gears begin to unlock.

The mournful groan, the chilling sound, the melody that spins around,
A tune that reaches to the bone, waking spirits, dread unknown.

Lampshade whispers, wings of night, joining in the ghostly flight,
Wooden blocks in eerie dance, move as if in spectral trance.

Tricycle's wheels start to turn, rusty squeaks that make you squirm,
Typewriter keys tap out the tale, of secrets dark and voices pale.

The objects move, they come alive, in this attic, spirits thrive,
A symphony of cursed despair, fills the heavy, stagnant air.

The music weaves through dust and gloom, binding shadows in this room,
As crescendo reaches fevered pitch, the bulb succumbs, the darkness rich.

Silence falls, the chorus ends, in suffocating dark, it blends,
Yet echoes linger, whispers stay, of tragedies that haunt the day.

In the deepest, darkest night, where unseen terrors take their flight,
The haunted attic keeps its hold, where stories of the damned are told.