In the heart of night, where shadows play,
Exists a tale of dread, that old folks say.
A tale spun around the hearth’s dimmed light,
Of a black dog haunting in the thick of night.
Deep within the woods, under the spectral moon,
Prowls a phantom hound, with eyes of maroon.
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The old cloister of St. Clement stood like a somber, silent sentinel against the relentless passage of time.
Once upon a bone-chilling, stormy night in the small, tranquilly eerie town of Dunwich, a tale unfurled that none could easily forget. The story was about a haunting that would shiver the spines of even the bravest men. They called it the tale of the "Ghost Head."
In the hush of the midnight hour, beneath the moon's eerie glow,
In the shadowed land of the forgotten,
In the heart of the shadowed woods, under the pallid moon,
a ghostly black dog haunting an old mansion
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