The Haunted Hotel Room

The Haunted Hotel Room

The key was cold in my shaking hand,

Room thirteen at the end of the hall.

The carpet swallowed every step,

The silence pressed against the walls.

A flickering bulb hummed overhead,

Its dying light cast ghosts in chrome.

The air was thick with dust and whispers,

The scent of time left all alone.

The mirror held a shape too tall,

Too thin, too wrong, too out of place.

It grinned when I refused to move,

And tilted back its hollow face.

The bed was made, but not for me,

The sheets were damp with something deep.

The closet door creaked open slow,

And something watched me try to sleep.

At 3 AM, the voices rose,

A chorus stitched from cries and moans.

Footsteps scraped along the floor,

Yet I was in the room alone.

The window showed no world outside,

Just black that swallowed up the glass.

I ran before the dawn could rise,

But something stayed behind and laughed.

I left that place, I swear I did,

Yet every night it calls me back.

The room still waits, the key still turns,

And I still wake in the dark