Halls of Darkness

In the dead of night, when the world is still,
And the moon hangs high in the sky,
The morgue comes alive with a chill
That seems to linger and never die.

The doors creak open, and the air grows cold,
As the night shift worker steps inside,
The silence broken by steps so bold,
Echoing through the halls so wide.

The bodies lie still, in silent repose,
Their eyes closed and their faces serene,
But the worker feels their presence, and knows
That something lurks just beyond the scene.

The shadows dance, and the whispers grow,
As the worker checks each body with care,
But the fear inside begins to show,
As the darkness seems to thicken in the air.

A flicker of movement, a rustle of cloth,
And the worker turns to face the sound,
But there is nothing there, just the stillness aloft,
And the worker's heart begins to pound.

The hour grows late, and the worker grows tired,
But the night seems endless, and the fear won't subside,
As the morgue becomes a place to be admired,
A place where the dead refuse to hide.

A hand touches the worker's back,
A coldness that sends a shiver down the spine,
And the worker turns to face the attack,
But there is nothing there, just the darkness in line.

The worker knows that something is wrong,
That the dead have risen from their sleep,
And the night seems to stretch on and on,
As the worker prays for the dawn to creep.

The walls close in, and the air grows thick,
As the worker tries to escape the hold,
But the dead are relentless, and the worker is sick,
As the night shift becomes a story told.

The worker's screams echo through the halls,
As the dead close in for their final attack,
And the worker knows that the end is near,
As the night shift comes to a sudden halt.

In the morning, the morgue is silent,
And the worker is nowhere to be found,
But the whispers linger, and the shadows remain,
A reminder of the horror that once was around.