In the hush of the midnight hour, beneath the moon's eerie glow,
Lies a house shrouded in darkness, where things are not as they show.
A strange collection rests within, each with a soul of its own,
An army of haunted dolls, in the silence, they whisper and moan.
Fragile faces of porcelain, eyes vacant yet somehow alive,
Each one holds a tale, a ghostly spirit they strive to revive.
I want to reach a fan following
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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 shadowed land of the forgotten,
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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