Through misty glades where whispers creep,
A phantom train awakes from sleep.
Its engine hums a mournful dirge,
Through shadowed woods, it starts to surge.
No mortal track its wheels have known,
Its path by ghostly hands was sown.
A spectral glow, a ghastly gleam,
It haunts the realm of waking dream.
Passengers of faded past,
Their hollow eyes to windows cast.
They clutch regrets, their hands like bone,
Forever bound to roam alone.
A voice intones, a chilling cry,
“Board now, or let this chance slip by!”
A trembling hand extends in fear,
For one last ride to yesteryear.
The ticket master, pale and grim,
With eyeless gaze, he beckons him.
The fare? Not coin, but memories dear,
Each joy exchanged for haunted tears.
Through ruins vast, through chasms wide,
The train does pierce where shadows bide.
It halts by mansions, black and tall,
Where voices echo, faintly call.
“Step off,” they say, “and claim your room,
Among the relics of the gloom.”
But dare they leave the haunted train?
Or face the specters’ endless reign?
The whistle blows, a final moan,
The train dissolves to mist and stone.
But in its wake, a whisper stays,
To haunt the bold for countless days.
So dream with care, as night takes hold,
And fear the Ghost Train’s chilling cold.
For if it comes to claim your soul,
No light shall warm the shadow’s toll.