In the witching hour, whilst the world dreams in ignorant stillness, hushed whispers, dear Capricorn, shall lurk across the ebon veils of your slumber, calling you into cryptic realms terrifyingly exquisite. Do not resist their pull—and surrender you must, for you are the mariner set on a spectral voyage, set amidst a devil’s tempest, a carnival of spirits grotesque and sublime playing out their tempestuous nocturnal revue upon the stage of your unconscious mind. Rendezvous you shall with a presence—an antique specter from antiquity, mysterious and unworldly, its intentions enshrouded in the cobwebbed secrecy of sepulchral etiquette—a figure, once forgotten, now craving communion.

An unearthly gleam shall infiltrate your waking world, and resting places in daytime will become havens no longer. Your home, wreathed in the chiaroscuro of an interminable twilight, will become a haunted museum, each room a portrait revealing stories of the forgotten netherworld, echoes of a dire past resounding hauntingly into an unfathomable future. A tangible chill will pervade the core of your existence as you navigate this spectral reality—draw strength from your unyielding resolve, resolve that could charm the gargoyles off ancient stone ramparts. Fear not, dear Capricorn, these phantasmal encounters but surrender to them as necessary pilgrimages into realms shadowy, to gain insight beyond mortal reach.