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In the witching hour’s cursed veil,
Where shadows writhe and spirits wail,
A specter rises, grim and cold,
Its hollow eyes both stark and bold.

From crumbling halls where silence moans,
Through crypts that house the dead’s bare bones,
It glides on breathless, icy air,
A chilling presence, none compare.

Oh, ghost of yore, with hollow eyes,
Through shattered glass and mournful cries,
Your wail, a dirge of sorrow’s call,
Echoes in the cursed hall.

Your fingers, cold as winter’s breath,
Trace the path of life to death,
A touch that brings the chill of graves,
In shadowed corners, darkness paves.

Once mortal, now in spectral guise,
You drift where earthly spirit dies,
A harbinger of fear and dread,
Among the living, yet undead.

Oh, phantom, in your ghostly veil,
What secrets do your whispers tell?
Of love once lost, or vengeance dire,
Of hearts consumed by dark desire?

Your presence chills the very bone,
A terror born of the unknown,
In moonlit fog, you make your plight,
A guardian of the endless night.

Silent specter, harbinger,
Of nightmares that will not defer,
In every creak and whisper, lo,
A tale of woe, a haunting show.

In this ode, your tale is spun,
Of restless nights and horrors won,
A ghostly dance, a spectral flight,
Forever bound to endless night.

When daylight breaks, you fade away,
A memory in the light of day,
Yet as the sun dips low once more,
Your shadow falls upon the floor.

Oh, ghost, relentless, ever near,
A specter bound in chains of fear,
We honor you in dread and fright,
A ghostly echo in the night.

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