“Whispers in the Frost” is a poem about a boy who wakes up in the early hours of the morning, feeling tired and cold. As he attempts to read a book, he hears unsettling sounds and sees a girl in a black overcoat through a fogged window. When the mist thickens, the girl vanishes, and strange knocking noises and whispers fill the room. Despite trying to convince himself it was just a dream, a chilling voice whispers in his ear, leaving him questioning whether what he experienced was real or not. The poem blends elements of suspense, fear, and the supernatural.
Whispers in the Frost
Ahh! It’s 4 a.m.
A boy, his face pale and weary,
Yawns, eyes glazed with heavy tears.
He stretches his arms, legs, and back,
Fighting the weight of lingering sleep.
Reluctantly, he stirs,
Pushing the quilt aside.
The cold air bites his skin,
And in the stillness, a sound rises—
ha… ha… ha.
He stumbles to his study table,
Reaches for a book,
But soon retreats to his bed,
Quilt pulled tight, book in hand.
Its title reads December Days.
A sigh escapes, followed by a deep yawn.
The pages turn,
Stopping effortlessly at sixty-four.
“Oh, I’ve read this before,” he murmurs,
And begins again.
It’s the story of Julia,
Sitting by her window,
Praising the winter,
Singing softly to herself.
But then—he freezes.
A noise breaks the silence.
Tap… tap…
His voice trembles as he whispers:
“Who’s there?”
A moment later, he calls louder.
“Amma! Amma!”
Scrambling out of bed,
His feet falter as he inches toward the window.
Through the fogged glass,
He sees her—
A girl in a black overcoat,
Her silhouette is barely visible
Through the swirling mist.
His breath catches.
He presses his hands to the glass,
Peering into the fog.
But suddenly, it thickens,
A white shroud curling closer,
Swallowing her whole.
He stumbles back,
His heart pounding in his chest.
A faint knock echoes on the pane.
He spins around,
Eyes scanning the shadows.
No one is there. Only silence.
Or so he thinks—
Until he hears it again.
Knock. Knock.
The sound grows sharper, nearer,
And then the whispers return.
Ha… ha… ha.
But now, they’re inside the room.
Shaking, he leaps into bed,
Pulling the quilt over his trembling body,
Sealing every edge as though it could shield him.
“I was dreaming,” he mutters,
“I saw nothing… it wasn’t real…”
The whispers fade.
For a moment, all is still.
But then—
A cold breath brushes his ear.
And a voice, low and chilling, murmurs:
“Did you, though?”
~Zikra Hasan (Laiba)
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