In shadows deep where whispers creep,
The ghostly house does silent weep.
Its walls are cracked, its windows lost,
A place of sorrow, cold as frost.

Beneath the moon’s pale, eerie glow,
A chilling wind begins to blow.
The ivy crawls with tendrils thin,
Where souls of old may still have been.

A door ajar, a creak, a sound,
The echoes of the past unbound.
The house remains, abandoned still,
A haunted place upon the hill.