The wicked Ouija was lit by a candle’s flicker,
While shadows danced through the smoke,
Around the board of fate and chance,
A circle drawn in trembling light,
Awaked spirits of the night.
The letters carved with ancient care,
The planchette moved on stagnant air,
It slid across the board’s dark grain,
As whispers rose like falling rain.
“Who calls upon the world unseen?”
The spirits hissed, their voices keen,
From realms where silence choked the breath,
And every word was stained with death.
The aura became gloomy, a midnight haze,
The flame burned low, a sallow blaze,
The letters spelt a name unknown,
A voice that chilled down to the bone.
The board revealed what none should know,
Old secrets buried long ago,
Of broken vows and endless pain,
And souls that wandered, bound by chain.
The planchette halted, then jerked anew,
The spirits murmured, dark and true,
It slid towards the word “despair,”
A warning was written on the air.
The room grew cold, the candles dim,
The shadows stretched and twisted their limbs,
And faces form in smoky wisps,
With silent screams on phantom lips.
A question asked, “What lies beyond?”
The spirits answered, voices fond,
Of empty rooms and endless nights,
Where darkness swallowed even light.
The wicked Ouija then trembled, cracked with force,
As if possessed by some dark source,
A chill seeped deep into the bones,
As laments increased from ghostly tones.
The planchette spun, then fell to still,
Its purpose served, its hunger filled,
And yet the air remained so tense,
The world was divided by a fence.
The flame burned out, the darkness spread,
The board was closed, the spirits fled,
But something lingered in the gloom,
A presence bound within the room.
The candle’s wick still smouldered red,
A final ember, spirit-fed,
And though the board lay now at rest,
Its wicked secrets were still infesting.
For those who dare to seek and call,
The veil between shall be thin and fall,
And through the wicked Ouija’s art,
The dead may still whisper to the heart.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
