In the misty moors of olden days,
A tale of terror oft was told,
Of spirits lost in winding ways,
Their agony, forever unfold.

The afterlife, a lie it seems,
For those who wander in despair,
In endless search of shattered dreams,
Their souls trapped in eternal snare.

They haunt the earth with mournful cries,
Their eyes ablaze with ghostly fire,
In deathly silence, they agonize,
Their pain, a never-ending pyre.

The hooting owl, the rustling leaves,
The sound of footsteps in the night,
All strike fear into those who grieve,
For they may be the lost one's plight.

Beware the shadows in the dark,
For they may hold a spirit's form,
And if you hear a distant bark,
It may be the hound of the storm.

The afterlife, a fearful fate,
For those who wander in the gloom,
Their pain, a burden far too great,
Their souls forever trapped in doom.

So heed this warning, brave and bold,
And stay away from haunted ground,
For those who enter, we are told,
May never again be found.