In the old house on Elmwood Lane,
young Thomas played his games again.
His parents worked from dawn till night,
and left him with the creaks and fright.

The floorboards groaned beneath his feet—
a rhythm soft, a whispered beat.
He pressed his ear to oak and pine
and heard a voice that wasn’t mine.

At first he thought it wind or mice,
a trick of wood, a roll of dice.
But night by night the sound grew clear—
a murmur low, a voice sincere.

“Come closer, child,” it seemed to say,
“I’ve waited long for you to play.”

Thomas laughed and called it friend—
a secret game without an end.
He’d lie upon the floor and listen,
tell it stories, watch it glisten

in the cracks where shadows pooled,
a darkness deep, forever cooled.

His mother noticed how he’d stare
at empty floors with vacant air.
“Daydreaming again?” she’d gently chide,
unknowing what the dark supplied.

The voice grew bolder, soft and sweet,
promised treasures, promised heat.

“Lift the board,” it coaxed one eve,
“and see the world you’ll soon receive.”

Thomas pried with fingers small—
the nail came loose, the wood gave all.
Beneath the floor, a hollow place—
a cavity, an unseen space.

No treasure gleamed, no gold was found,
just darkness thick, without a sound.

But then it moved—a shift, a sigh—
and something rose to meet his eye.
Not hand, not claw, but something wet,
a tendril cold with living sweat.

It wrapped his wrist with gentle care
and pulled him down into its lair.

He didn’t scream—he couldn’t breathe—
the dark closed in like woven sheath.

His parents called, but heard no cry.
The floorboards sealed without reply.

Next morning, Thomas came to breakfast—
smiling wide, his movements reckless.
His mother hugged him, found him cold.
His father joked, the coffee bold.

But in his eyes, a shadow lingered,
a hollow stare, a darkness fingered.
He ate his toast and drank his juice
and spoke in tones not his own use.

At night the floorboards creak once more—
a rhythm soft, forevermore.

The hollow waits beneath the wood
for another child who understood.

The invitation, soft and sweet—
“Come closer, child.
The game’s complete.”

Written By MCapture