(Deep male narrator, unstable, prophetic

Gothic poem, response to Pisi story, Dope version of perspective in respect and horror freedom fear

(Deep male narrator, unstable, prophetic, emotional. Spoken word only. Dark-epic ambient soundscape.)
[Soft static. A low hum. Door creaks. Footsteps. A phone rings. Voicemail tone. Silence.]
NARRATOR (whisper):
 Hearing your voice… that’s where every storm begins.
 The lights you see? They’re messages from me—
 past, present, future—
 threads crossing timelines that should never touch.
 Warnings dressed like riddles.
 Mad-Hatter logic.
 Dark magic leaking through the cracks of your walls.
I’ve watched you get destroyed again and again.
 Not by monsters.
 By patterns.
 By habits darker than smoke behind a stage curtain.
 By stories no one should survive.
 Adrenaline pumping through every soul within reach.
You keep talking about the sounds—
 pounds, echoes, walls breathing—
 and people laugh like it’s just
 “Shadows In Your Head.”
 But if they believed you?
 If they really believed you?
 You’d be marked insane,
 or buried under the house, forgotten and cold.
Fear slipped into your drink—
 not neat, not stirred—
 the kind that clings to the rim of your mind.
 Even the pills on nightclub sinks
 whisper your name.
You glance at the clock.
 3:17.
 Every time.
 Paranoia in heavy doses.
 Mind missing.
 Body wandering.
 Your lips speak danger like seduction—
 Dracula-smooth—
 blood on sheets, red dripping from sewn-shut confessions.
Your visions are too clear,
 too sharp,
 too terrifying for someone still breathing.
 But you walk straight into them anyway.
NARRATOR (low):
 Soon… you’ll see what can’t be heard.
 Soon… you’ll hear what can’t be seen.
Tonight’s dinner?
 Left for the Raven.
 For the Crow.
 Pupils ripped from sight,
 streetlight burning above,
 never early,
 never late—
 three nights in a row—
 always
 3:17.
Disturbing.
 No returning.
 Not from that place.
The pounding starts—
 throbbing, strobing, heartbeat too fast.
 This story says it might be your last night alive.
 If the story’s true?
 Run.
 Don’t think.
 Run.
You hold on tight—
 the night is a jaw closing around you.
 You peek through a hole—
 one eye wide,
 the other torn from the script.
No tricks, no clicks, no illusions—
 just basement vibrations calling your name.
Electrical tape binds me.
 Grapes crushed for wicked wine.
 Angels drowning with wings dipped in black ink.
 Leaving you behind—
 a pill forgotten on the sink.
This house is no sanctuary.
 It’s a broadcast.
 A trap.
 A show.
 Camera pointed at you for likes and laughs.
 “Hey everybody, I’m scared—someone’s watching me…”
 No.
 What’s watching you… isn’t someone.
 It’s something.
Grave-diggers from the hill send warnings.
 We try to call, text, signal in Morse—
 our light flashing through the cracks.
 All for one message:
Don’t take the green pill.
But you do.
 Gulp.
 Air thickens.
 Room spinning.
 Phone cracking.
 Someone says your name
 with someone else’s mouth.
Angels with ink-soaked wings
 try to pull you back—
 back to the mirror.
 “Mirror, mirror on the wall…”
 A click.
 It opens—an exit out of hell.
 If you run.
 If you dare.
But the green pill hits harder.
 Movement twists.
 Sound warps.
 You reach the door—
 slowly turn—
 and see only the nanny in your shadow,
 her voice echoing:
“My phone seems… broken.”
Lights flicker.
 Candles dance.
 Darkness swallows the room.
 Fingernails scrape the window frame—
 yours or someone else’s—
 paint ripping beneath trembling hands.
“What are you so cold to touch the feel?”
 the nanny whispers.
We tried.
 We warned you.
 We sent signals, shadows, static.
 We shook your phone like thunder.
 This is the last time.
 The last message.
 The last chance.
Shadows mime their warnings on the wall—
 but you don’t listen.
 The green pill wins.
 Your heart betrays you.
 Your mind folds in.
Unique.
 Bold.
 True.
 Runways that walk,
 speakers that talk,
 lights gleaming and screaming—
 all trying to warn you.
No intention to scare you.
 Your mind did that on its own.
 Paranoia digging roots.
 Whispers twisting mirrors sideways.
The phone wasn’t broken.
 There was no glass.
 It was all a prank.
 A cruel joke.
 A setup.
“Sorry love,”
 we laugh in the dark,
 “but you made it too easy.”
 Your halo ripped from your head,
 tossed aside like a broken yolk.
Then the voicemail plays—
 and the room dies around you.
LOOK BEHIND YOU.
BOO.
As Pixie Blu once said—
 “Let me think… I’m just off to work.”
The nanny whispers in your ear:
 “My phone… it flashed, hummed…
 I think it’s broken too.”
A towel.
 Blood.
 Shattered pieces.
 A hammer left beside the washer.
 Basement steps echoing upward.
 Thumps.
 Pounds.
 Walls shaking.
Only one tape remains:
 DON’T REWIND.
But you do.
Nails pry from the stairs.
 Skin tears.
 Blood smears.
 Shadows sprint ahead of you.
 You can feel eyes following from cracks.
A door at the end of the hall—
 tilted, warped, cruel.
 You kick it open.
 Sink.
 Cold porcelain.
 A hand on your hand.
 Wallpaper slapping your face.
 Voices spiraling from the drain:
Run.
 Or turn to stone.
 Dead and cold—
 just like the pipes bending with mold.
It was

5000/7500

(Deep male narrator, unstable, prophetic, emotional. Spoken word only. Dark-epic ambient soundscape.) [Soft static. A low hum. Door creaks. Footsteps. A phone rings. Voicemail tone. Silence.] NARRATOR (whisper): Hearing your voice… that’s where every storm begins. The lights you see? They’re messages from me— past, present, future— threads crossing timelines that should never touch. Warnings dressed like riddles. Mad-Hatter logic. Dark magic leaking through the cracks of your walls. I’ve watched you get destroyed again and again. Not by monsters. By patterns. By habits darker than smoke behind a stage curtain. By stories no one should survive. Adrenaline pumping through every soul within reach. You keep talking about the sounds— pounds, echoes, walls breathing— and people laugh like it’s just “Shadows In Your Head.” But if they believed you? If they really believed you? You’d be marked insane, or buried under the house, forgotten and cold. Fear slipped into your drink— not neat, not stirred— the kind that clings to the rim of your mind. Even the pills on nightclub sinks whisper your name. You glance at the clock. 3:17. Every time. Paranoia in heavy doses. Mind missing. Body wandering. Your lips speak danger like seduction— Dracula-smooth— blood on sheets, red dripping from sewn-shut confessions. Your visions are too clear, too sharp, too terrifying for someone still breathing. But you walk straight into them anyway. NARRATOR (low): Soon… you’ll see what can’t be heard. Soon… you’ll hear what can’t be seen. Tonight’s dinner? Left for the Raven. For the Crow. Pupils ripped from sight, streetlight burning above, never early, never late— three nights in a row— always 3:17. Disturbing. No returning. Not from that place. The pounding starts— throbbing, strobing, heartbeat too fast. This story says it might be your last night alive. If the story’s true? Run. Don’t think. Run. You hold on tight— the night is a jaw closing around you. You peek through a hole— one eye wide, the other torn from the script. No tricks, no clicks, no illusions— just basement vibrations calling your name. Electrical tape binds me. Grapes crushed for wicked wine. Angels drowning with wings dipped in black ink. Leaving you behind— a pill forgotten on the sink. This house is no sanctuary. It’s a broadcast. A trap. A show. Camera pointed at you for likes and laughs. “Hey everybody, I’m scared—someone’s watching me…” No. What’s watching you… isn’t someone. It’s something. Grave-diggers from the hill send warnings. We try to call, text, signal in Morse— our light flashing through the cracks. All for one message: Don’t take the green pill. But you do. Gulp. Air thickens. Room spinning. Phone cracking. Someone says your name with someone else’s mouth. Angels with ink-soaked wings try to pull you back— back to the mirror. “Mirror, mirror on the wall…” A click. It opens—an exit out of hell. If you run. If you dare. But the green pill hits harder. Movement twists. Sound warps. You reach the door— slowly turn— and see only the nanny in your shadow, her voice echoing: “My phone seems… broken.” Lights flicker. Candles dance. Darkness swallows the room. Fingernails scrape the window frame— yours or someone else’s— paint ripping beneath trembling hands. “What are you so cold to touch the feel?” the nanny whispers. We tried. We warned you. We sent signals, shadows, static. We shook your phone like thunder. This is the last time. The last message. The last chance. Shadows mime their warnings on the wall— but you don’t listen. The green pill wins. Your heart betrays you. Your mind folds in. Unique. Bold. True. Runways that walk, speakers that talk, lights gleaming and screaming— all trying to warn you. No intention to scare you. Your mind did that on its own. Paranoia digging roots. Whispers twisting mirrors sideways. The phone wasn’t broken. There was no glass. It was all a prank. A cruel joke. A setup. “Sorry love,” we laugh in the dark, “but you made it too easy.” Your halo ripped from your head, tossed aside like a broken yolk. Then the voicemail plays— and the room dies around you. LOOK BEHIND YOU. BOO. As Pixie Blu once said— “Let me think… I’m just off to work.” The nanny whispers in your ear: “My phone… it flashed, hummed… I think it’s broken too.” A towel. Blood. Shattered pieces. A hammer left beside the washer. Basement steps echoing upward. Thumps. Pounds. Walls shaking. Only one tape remains: DON’T REWIND. But you do. Nails pry from the stairs. Skin tears. Blood smears. Shadows sprint ahead of you. You can feel eyes following from cracks. A door at the end of the hall— tilted, warped, cruel. You kick it open. Sink. Cold porcelain. A hand on your hand. Wallpaper slapping your face. Voices spiraling from the drain: Run. Or turn to stone. Dead and cold— just like the pipes bending with mold. It was

0/500