In the quiet hours when the moon is high,
Shadows dance and ghosts pass by.
Whispers echo through the ancient walls,
As the spectral voice of sorrow calls.

The air grows cold, a chill in the air,
Invisible fingers ruffle your hair.
Eyes that see but the unseen,
Haunted by what might have been.

Footsteps echo on the creaking floor,
A reminder of those who are no more.
Their stories linger, though time has passed,
In the realm where memories are cast.

Shadows weave their ghostly tale,
In the night where spirits wail.
A world between the living and the dead,
Where the whispers of ghosts are softly said.