Beneath the moon’s clandestine glow,
Where shadows merge and secrets flow,
A whisper through the cellar door,
A presence felt, yet seen no more.

Its silhouette, a fleeting shade,
In realms of dark, its home is made,
With eyes like coals that softly burn,
It watches, waits, for time’s return.

No mortal gaze can pierce its veil,
In whispered tales, the elders quail,
A specter, lost in night’s embrace,
Its form, its essence, leave no trace.

Yet, in the stillness, you may find,
A chill that creeps, a touch unkind,
The ghostly guardian of the lore,
Beyond the ancient cellar door.