The mist uncovers the face of a faceless- A mold tinted with the darkest grey, It sits on a throne of spider mesh- It's the spirit at the end of the hallway.
The spirit always extends a hand, To which the lonesome soul is ever drawn- Whose back, faces the dead end, While its eyes, gaze the dead one.
The hallway leads the soul to numerous doors, None of their latches ever locked- Yet, more appealing is the invite to the spirit's court, Who whispers, "They all need doorknobs".
The musty air however, always smells ominous, daunting the soul, crushing its interest, Ensuant to which it enters one of the closest doors, Taking in apace, the number on its plaque.
The door leads to nowhere but darkness, The hallway was the only way out- Which is filled with the snickers of the heinous, awaiting once again, for the loop to start.
The soul goes back in to the corridor, which is now, as quiet as a mouse, The spirit however, seems nearer, and the number on the door has increased by one.
Malice doesn't really have a face, but it smiles after affecting you with its decay, and it's smirk is akin to the one-
the soul had now traced,
on a faceless face,
who was the spirit at the end of the hallway.
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