Tag: atmospheric

  • A Secret Doom

    A Secret Doom

    A Secret Doom,
    Cracks spread like nightmares across the pale sky of dusk,
    Twisting through the bones of the earth, splitting it wide,
    As secrets, dark and festering, rise from forgotten graves.
    Whispers drip from shadows unseen, crawling through the air,
    A doom long carved in echoes, unspoken yet unavoidable,
    An invisible weight pressing down on the heart of the world.
    Each breath tastes of ruin, sharp as the edge of a knife,
    A phantom’s regret lingers in every corner of the mind.

    Beneath the surface of the soil, something stirs, something waits,
    A hidden truth buried deep, locked within the marrow of the earth,
    Its presence was felt in the tremble of leaves, in the shiver of wind,
    As the sky darkens with dread and the stars turn cold.
    Eyes close, but visions remain, burning behind the lids,
    Fingers grasp at the air, tearing at the unseen veil of reality,
    But nothing holds—the void laughs softly,
    A quiet madness that hums beneath the skin,
    Invisible threads of fate weaving a pattern of despair.

    A secret doom spins its web, each strand a tale of forgotten sorrow,
    Tangled in the fabric of existence, in the very core of being,
    Where chaos reigns, and reason falls away into oblivion.
    Nothing remains but the endless fall, the plunge into the unknown,
    Where no ground waits beneath, only the infinite descent,
    Into the crushing weight of emptiness, a hollow pit of eternity.
    In this place, secrets and doom entwine,
    Feeding on the darkness, growing stronger,
    Until only the echoes remain, fading into nothingness,
    Lost in the void where all is forgotten, and all is lost.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Shadowed Passage

    The Shadowed Passage

    The shadowed passage rested at the heart of a forgotten manor,
    Past the majestic hall and beneath the stairs,
    Where time had left its mark in cold and dark layers,
    Thick with decay and secrets, it bore.

    A single candle’s dim light flickered,
    Casting grotesque shapes upon the ornate walls,
    Forms that moved and twisted eerily,
    With a life of their own in the shadows’ thrall.

    As one ventured deeper, chills gripped the bones,
    The oppressive silence was broken by a drip,
    The uneven floor, worn smooth by countless feet,
    Whispers rose like cold breath to nip.

    In the heart of the passage loomed a door,
    Marred by scratches from desperate attempts to flee,
    Pushing it open revealed a small, dark room,
    Dusty shelves and a chair facing the dark sea.

    From the depths of shadows, a figure emerged,
    More an absence of light than a form,
    Gliding silently with eerie grace,
    Its face was shown briefly with sorrow forlorn.

    Suddenly, the door slammed shut,
    The candle’s light extinguished in the obscurity,
    The whispers crescendoed into a cacophony,
    The figure reached out, and then it all went slack.

    The noise ceased as quickly as it had begun,
    The room remained empty save for a faint, eerie trace,
    The passage, once silent and foreboding,
    Now hummed with echoes of a haunting embrace.

    A chill swept through the manor’s very bones,
    As if the walls themselves were breathing deep,
    Ancient echoes as remembrances of forgotten moans,
    In the shadows where the restless spirits slept.

    The ceiling’s beams, aged and cracked, groaned faintly,
    Their weight seemed almost unbearable,
    Casting elongated, spectral and unsettling shades,
    A spectacle of the eerily intangible.

    In the far corner, a mirror stood covered in dust and fear,
    Reflecting only darkness and fading light,
    Its glass was a gateway to another time,
    Where memories twisted in the heart of each night.

    Steps lingered in the silence, slow and measured,
    Each echo was a relic of the passage’s curse,
    A place where past and present were forever tethered,
    A labyrinth of sighs, haunted and immersed.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Forgotten Theatre

    The Forgotten Theatre

    The forgotten theatre was hidden in the heart of the old city,
    Nestled between towering buildings,
    Once a grand beacon, now forsaken,
    Crumbled and cloaked in ivy’s embrace.

    Once grand, now dust and vine,
    Ornate facade hidden away,
    Marquee unlit, letters faded,
    Abandoned, haunting in dismay.

    Legends whispered of a night,
    A performance at the height of its fervour, tragic,
    Flames consumed with terrifying speed,
    Trapped souls in a fiery magic.

    Spirits bound to the stage,
    Their untimely demise,
    Haunting the theatre still,
    In ghostly, sorrowful cries.

    Interior, a labyrinth of decay,
    Air thick with dust and mildew,
    Floorboards creaked ominously,
    A grand chandelier in a webbed hue.

    Red velvet seats faded and torn,
    Once plush, now mould and rot,
    An opulent auditorium,
    In neglect, long forgotten.

    The charred stage, a sombre reminder,
    The backdrop faded and torn,
    Orchestra pit, a dark void,
    Instruments broken, forlorn.

    At night, the theatre came to life,
    Faint music filled the halls,
    Shadows of performers flitted,
    Ghostly symphony echoed calls.

    Empty seats held ghostly spectators,
    Faces pale, gaunt in despair,
    Disembodied voices and laughter,
    A crowd was no longer there.

    A woman in a tattered costume,
    Face streaked with soot and tears,
    Wandered halls in deep sorrow,
    Searching through the years.

    Backstage, narrow corridors,
    Dressing rooms were silent and cold,
    Mirrors cracked and tarnished,
    Reflections of stories untold.

    Costumes hung in tatters,
    Colours faded with age,
    The lingering scent of smoke,
    Haunting every stage.

    At dawn, the ghostly faded,
    The theatre fell silent anew,
    Chandelier, charred stage, empty seats,
    Witnesses to tragedy’s rue.

    Spirits bound to the theatre,
    In restless slumber, they lay,
    Waiting for the night to awaken,
    To haunt, to dance, to play.

    A testament to sorrow’s power,
    The forgotten theatre stands,
    Spirits perform in ghostly hours,
    A nighttime can’t erase demands.

    The city moved on, bustling streets,
    In contrast to the eerie presence,
    Past and present intertwined,
    In shadows, whispers, and essence.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Forgotten Chamber

    The Forgotten Chamber

    The forgotten chamber was hiding in the dim recess of an ancient house,
    Where shadows clutched the silent walls,
    A chamber waited with a broken vow,
    Its secrets held in whispers’ thralls.

    Dusty curtains draped the sombre panes,
    Their fabric was frayed by time’s cruel hand,
    The floorboards creaked with ghostly strains,
    In this forsaken, spectral land.

    Beneath the moon’s cold, pallid light,
    The air grew thick with sorrow’s breath,
    Each crevice hid a tale of fright,
    Of restless souls and silent death.

    A mirror cracked, its glass dismayed,
    Reflects not what the eye could have seen,
    But echoes of a past long frayed,
    Where shadows lingered in misery.

    The decrepit pendulum clock stood still, unmoved,
    Its pendulum blade was a haunting lull,
    Tick-tock lost to time’s disprove,
    A rhythm ceased, a heartbeat dull.

    In corners where the darkness draped,
    A chilling breeze began to moan,
    The dust rose in spectral shapes,
    As if the room remembered its own doom.

    A hollow voice from beyond the seam,
    Called out with sorrowful, pleading grace,
    An old and weary, haunting dream,
    Etched in the chamber’s haunted space.

    And though the chamber’s door was sealed,
    Its secrets were still beyond human grasp,
    The echoes of its past were posed,
    In shadows that the night enwrapped.

    In the musty gloom, the cobwebs weaved,
    Their silken threads were ghostly shrouds,
    The echoes of the past deceived,
    As whispers appeared beneath clouds.

    The hearths, now cold, held faint traces,
    Of fires that once burned bright and warm,
    Its ashes held a spectral hue,
    Of days now lost to time’s own storm.

    The wallpaper, peeling with despair,
    Revealed forgotten patterns, old,
    A labyrinth of history’s snare,
    In faded shades of bold darkness.

    The bed’s old frame was creaking still,
    Its linens were yellowed by the years,
    A silent witness to the chill,
    Of sleepless nights and hidden fears.

    The oil paintings on the walls were torn,
    Their subjects were lost in vacant gazes,
    Eyes that followed, forlorn, worn,
    With souls enshrined in a darkened haze.

    The chandeliers, now dark and bare,
    Hung in silence in their spectral grace,
    Their crystals gathered moonlit glare,
    A fractured light in a broken space.

    The cold stone floors were etched with dust and sand,
    Where footsteps faded in muted cries,
    An eternal waltz of eerie time,
    In shadowed paths where darkness lay.

    The old armchair, once soft and grand,
    Were now draped in dust and faded dreams,
    Its cushions held a ghostly hand,
    A spectral touch in quiet schemes.

    The dust motes danced in the still air,
    A ghostly ballet in moonlight’s beam,
    Their silent steps were caught in a snare,
    Of time’s relentless, haunting stream.

    In the attic, secrets lay patiently in wait,
    In trunks and chests of weathered wood,
    Their locks were rusted by cruel fate,
    And treasures lost to darkened mood.

    The scent of old decay persisted,
    Of bygone days and vanished lights,
    A presence in the shadows twisted,
    An unseen guest that haunted the night.

    The floorboards creaked beneath the weight,
    Of memories that will never die,
    Each groaned a whisper of regret,
    A mournful sigh in the darkened sky.

    The broken windows framed the night,
    Their shattered glass was a ghostly screen,
    Through jagged panes, the pale moonlight,
    Revealed the shadows, cold and lean.

    The clock’s hands rested in frozen time,
    A symbol of the past’s cruel jest,
    Its silence spoke of sorrow’s rhyme,
    In the chamber’s timeless, spectral rest.

    In the corners, shadows blended and faded,
    With hints of faces, lost and still,
    They formed a dark and shifting parade,
    In the chamber’s eerie, silent thrill.

    The echoes of a distant song,
    Played softly in the empty halls,
    A melody that once belonged,
    To voices now in shadows’ thrall.

    The scent of old, forgotten flowers,
    Lingered faintly in the air,
    Their petals were lost to fleeting hours,
    And whispers caught in dark despair.

    The staircase winds in haunted grace,
    It steps a path to darkened lore,
    A trail of dust and spectral traces,
    Led to secrets held in yore.

    The walls, adorned with ancient ashes,
    Held stories etched in ghostly art,
    Their cracks revealed the scars of time,
    A memory and testimony to broken hearts.

    The old bookcase stood forlorn,
    Its shelves were now bare and filled with dust,
    Each time, a ghost of knowledge torn,
    From a past that faded to rust.

    The iron key upon the sill,
    Once turned to unlock hidden dreams,
    Now rested in silence, cold and still,
    Its purpose was lost to moonlit beams.

    The echoes of laughter’s tone,
    Were caught within the chamber’s keep,
    A long-gone joy, now overthrown,
    By shadows that, in silence, crept.

    The faded rug on the floor,
    Once vibrant with a grand pattern,
    Now threads of memory, old and sore,
    In the cold embrace of spectral hand.

    The portraits’ eyes, so haunting still,
    Watched over the room’s dismal space,
    Their gazes filled with ghostly chill,
    And secrets were hidden in their face.

    The doorframe creaked with every breeze,
    A sound that stirred the quiet gloom,
    Its hinges moaned in spectral pleas,
    A harbinger of shadowed doom.

    The forgotten chamber held a timeless grief,
    A sorrow cast in the spectral shade,
    Its silence spoke of disbelief,
    And memories that never faded.

    The midnight hour brought shadows deep,
    To weave their tales in moonlight’s veils,
    Darkness where the spirits wept,
    And echoes of the past prevailed.

    The room remained a silent cry,
    A place where time and sorrow met,
    Its broken heart, a ghostly sigh,
    A chamber lost to dark defeat.

    And though the chamber’s door was sealed,
    Its secrets were still beyond human grasp,
    The echoes of its past were posed,
    In shadows that the night enwrapped.

    For in this room of ancient plight,
    The past and present intertwined,
    A haunted realm of endless night,
    Where lost souls in silence pined.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

© Esther Racah 2025. All rights reserved.