In the dead of night, beneath the pale moon’s glare,
Where whispers haunt and chill the spine,
Lurks a shadow, unseen, threading despair,
Crafting a tale gruesomely divine.
In the dark, where silence breathes heavy and deep,
A specter moves, his hands stained with sin,
Through alleys and shadows, he silently creeps,
Leaving behind a trail grim.

With every heart that ceases to beat,
With every silent scream in the night,
His legend grows, oh, so bittersweet,
A ghost in the fog, vanishing from sight.

Repeating the dance of death and dismay,
His identity cloaked in eternal night,
Many have tried, yet he slips away,
A wraith in the dark, just out of sight.

This tale of horror, whispered in fear,
Of a phantom killer, always near,
In the dead of night, he’ll always roam,
A serial specter, forever unknown.

So heed this tale, when the moon is high,
And shadows dance under starless skies,
For the killer walks, unseen, by and by,
In the darkness, where his secret lies.