In the twilight of the eve, a realm unseen,

A game was set between the moon's pale gleam.

A board of shadows, squares of ebony sheen,

Host to specters and echoes, in mystery it teems.

Player One, a phantom dressed in gossamer light,

Casts dice spun from the silk of astral twilight.

Player Two, a banshee cloaked in midnight's might,

Commands a scepter that dances with the northern lights.

The board, a haunted grid of spectral squares,

Each piece: a wisp, a haunt, a chill, a scare.

The graveyard king, the spectral queen's glares,

Nightmare knights and ethereal bishops ensnared.

Every move echoes with ancient whispers,

A ghostly dance of fright and shimmer.

Yet in this uncanny game of shivers,

There's a hidden grace that softly quivers.

A bishop veers, a knight does leap,

Across the board, dark secrets creep.

A spectral pawn's silent, sacrificial weep,

In the game's lore, eternally seep.

Each turn, the moon's glow gently wanes,

As the spectral clock of the night pertains.

In the dance of shadows, victory is fickle and feigns,

In this supernatural game, mystery reigns.

The banshee crows, the phantom sighs,

An echo of laughter, a chorus of cries.

For in this spectral game, the final prize,

Is not of this world, but of star-lit skies.

When dawn’s first light breaks the spectral plain,

The game resets, but mysteries remain.

Ghosts, banshees, secrets unexplained,

Await the moon to play again, the supernatural game.