In the heart of the shadowed woods, under the pallid moon,
Lies a secret old as time, a tale of silent doom.
A hollow cry, a whisper-soft, through the gnarled trees,
Echoes the legend of the Ghost Amulet, the keeper of the deceased.
An ancient relic, carved in bone, with symbols etched in dread,
Holding spirits in its grasp, binding the living and the dead.
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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 night, where shadows play,
a ghostly black dog haunting an old mansion
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