In the shadowed land of the forgotten,
Where silenced whispers echo untrodden,
There reigns a saint, draped in eerie quiet,
Santa Muerte, in her skull-like visage, solemn and defiant.
From the heart of Mexico, she stirs,
Cloaked in robes of gold, white and myrrhs,
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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 heart of the shadowed woods, under the pallid moon,
In the heart of night, where shadows play,
a ghostly black dog haunting an old mansion
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