The path looketh calm, but beware: tho all is silent in the Halls of the Dead, the machines that make nothing wait there until a blinking green light turneth red. Halls of locked doors, hidden danger; let not the lost child lead thee astray, to the wrath of the Phantom Stranger, ‘For we are many!’ the voices say.
Dead words drift across the page, the wisdom of some ancient sage, echoes of a long-forgotten age, but arcane verse doth set the stage:
Behold the sweet Lady of Twylight— tattered shadows billow from her mast, in the sea fog’s shimmering light, ’tis an eerie spectre of the past. The derelict adrift in the Misty Main, shades of men seem to man the decks, a ghost ship that’s the traveler’s bane, on a journey to nowhere uncheck’d.
All aboard the Mystery Train, walk through the dimly-lit cars, away from the Twylight City, riding under fading, dying stars. All the passenger cars art empty and the destinations don’t connect, but this train doth run through every one; ’twill make the hair stand on thy neck.
Nameless armies prowleth abandoned places, incomprehensible and vast; no one returneth who hath seen their faces: thou’rt through the looking glass.
Nowhere to hide from the scanners, in this dark place of Shadows, thou wilt never find the Lord of the Manor; in the Halls of Power, no one knows. Creepy like a place from some old black and white movie show, to which no one wouldst even come: ’twas more real than they couldst know.
A Presence in the room, of impending doom: don’t freeze up, for ye must runneth. Footfalls in the hall, to the book’s tomb, when something wickèd this way cometh…