"Whispers of the Haunted Night"

In the realm where shadows creep,
Where nightmares stir from restless sleep,
I dare to weave a tale of dread,
A haunting verse, where fears are bred.

Beneath the moon's pale, icy glare,
The darkness whispers tales unfair,
Its chilling breath upon my neck,
As I compose this morbid trek.

Through haunted woods, I wander deep,
Where eerie secrets vigil keep,
Each rustling leaf, a ghostly wail,
As spectral fingers start to trail.

In cryptic silence, graves exhale,
Their somber whispers fill the gale,
Phantoms dance on spectral breeze,
Unearthly specters seeking ease.

Upon a tomb, the moonlight spills,
And in its glow, a specter chills,
With hollow eyes and tattered shroud,
A wretched figure, lost and proud.

The wailing wind becomes a scream,
An echo of a twisted dream,
From graves, the dead begin to rise,
Their hollow sockets fix their eyes.

Through mist and fog, they slowly glide,
Their ghastly forms now side by side,
In spectral chorus, voices blend,
A dirge for those who meet their end.

The mansion looms in shadowed haze,
Its halls adorned with ghosts' malaise,
Where portraits gaze with ghostly eyes,
And twisted secrets therein lie.

In cobwebbed chambers, horrors wait,
Malevolence and ancient hate,
Whispers slither through the air,
Begging for release from their lair.

With every step, the floorboards groan,
Beneath the weight of sins unknown,
Echoes of the past resound,
As restless spirits gather 'round.

In mirrored halls, reflections twist,
Distorted images persist,
Ethereal forms, distorted faces,
A ghastly dance in haunted spaces.

From hidden passages, specters creep,
Their presence felt, a chilling sweep,
With every creak, their whispers rise,
A symphony of anguished cries.

In moonlit parlors, shadows writhe,
Their writhing forms, a ghastly hive,
A gruesome ballet of the damned,
In which the living are condemned.

As midnight tolls, the night grows deep,
And darkest secrets rise from sleep,
The horrors of this spectral place,
Reveal their visage, void of grace.

Yet still I write, and still I dare,
To tread this path of dark despair,
For in this verse, I find release,
A whispered echo of my peace.

So let the spirits haunt and wail,
Their torments weave a ghastly tale,
In this macabre poetry,
Their essence lingers, ever free.