Horror poem or monologue

When Evelyn bought the old Harrow House, the villagers told her it had been empty for decades. She didn’t care — she wanted peace, not gossip.

The first night was quiet, except for the faint ticking of the hall clock. But by the second night, Evelyn began to hear whispers. Soft, breathy voices coming from the walls. They spoke in fragments — her name, mostly, followed by faint laughter.

By the third night, the wallpaper had begun to peel. Beneath it, she found childlike drawings — crude sketches of faces with hollow eyes, all staring toward her bedroom door.

At exactly 3:07 a.m., the house sighed — a deep, human exhale — and the lights went out. In the blackness, Evelyn heard footsteps climbing the stairs, one at a time, slow and deliberate.

Then came the final whisper, so close it brushed her ear: