Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: curse

  • Fearless Sorrow

    Fearless Sorrow

    A fearless sorrow was the ruler of the realm of darkness and delusions. Not even the silence would have been so successful without it.

    Surreal dreams succumbed to the power of deception and fear. Nothing could have been altered, not even the cynical fate, as the grasp of sorrow and despair tore everything.

    Sorrow reigned over every corner, like ivy clinging to the shadows, dragging everything into its cold embrace.

    The stars themselves blinked out of existence, one by one, as if they, too, had surrendered to the desolation.

    Unspoken lamentations filled the gloomy aura, and each sigh was a reminder of the weight of existence.

    What once flickered with hope had long been extinguished, leaving only hollow echoes where light had dared to tread.

    The horizon, once vibrant with the promise of dawn, now stood still—a jagged line dividing the unknown void from the nothingness below.

    Time itself seemed to stretch and warp, losing meaning as the days merged into one endless, suffocating night.

    Beneath the ever-looming sky, the earth trembled with the weight of forgotten truths. There was no escape, only surrender.

    Shadows crept through every crevice, whispering the secrets of eternity lost to the wind, each moment a fading spectre of what once was.

    Wandering souls, trapped between life and death, carried the burden of their broken promises.

    Each anathema blossomed as a curse in the desolate landscape, where solemn echoes of laments vanished as quickly as they appeared.

    There was no solace, no reprieve in this abyss; only the cold certainty of oblivion awaited, where cries were swallowed by the emptiness.

    Even the world had grown tired of misery and despair. The endless night stretched on, indifferent to the mortal pains.

    A fearless sorrow consumed all while the relics of longings dissolved into the void, never to return.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Magic Spell

    The Magic Spell

    The magic spell enchanted the night
    That was heavy with forgotten lore,
    A spell cast deep from ages before.
    In the heart of a forest, shrouded by despair.

    Whispered incantations filled the midnight air,
    The grimoire lay open, brittle and bare.
    Candles flickered, casting shadows tall,
    As darkness answered to every call.

    With each word spoken, the wind did rise,
    Howling like demons from the void of the skies.
    The ground beneath trembled, cold and weak,
    As if the earth itself had forgotten to speak.

    A place that sought to summon the dead,
    To awaken spirits long silent, long fled.
    Through twisted trees, their faces did gleam,
    Eyes hollow and lost, trapped in their dream.

    The moon above was swallowed by clouds,
    And the night descended in haunted shrouds.
    Chants grew louder, desperate and wild,
    For the dark arts, the chosen child.

    The magic spell, dense in the aura, suffocating all,
    A portal to the depths of some enchanted hall.
    The spell worked its magic, cruel and vast,
    Binding forever to shadows of the past.

    Voices murmured from the stones nearby,
    An echo of a curse that refused to die.
    Through the mist they came, spirits long cursed,
    Their hollow chuckle made the soul feel worse.

    In horror, the spell took form,
    A creature born of night, death, and storm.
    It towered above, a phantom of dread,
    Its eyes glowed crimson, its body of lead.

    In a voice like thunder, it called a name,
    “You summoned me forth; now you’re to blame.”
    Mercy begged for, a will turned to dust,
    But in the dark arts, mercy is rust.

    The magic spell consumed all, a soul a mere husk,
    Trapped in a world forever of dusk.
    The spell woven became a cage,
    An endless nightmare, an eternal stage.

    Now, wandering these woods, lost in a trance,
    Caught between realms, a prisoner of chance.
    The spell never lifted, its grip iron-tight,
    The magic spell, eternal, devoid of light.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Doll’s Curse

    The Doll’s Curse

    The doll’s curse lingered in a dusty attic,
    Beneath cobwebs and forgotten memories,
    Where shadows whispered of past misdeeds
    And echoes of laughter long since lost.

    Gossamer draped like spectral thieves,
    A doll sat motionless, with glassy eyes,
    Its eternal gaze fixed through the past,
    Silent, it spoke of secrets long surpassed.

    Once a cherished companion, now forsaken,
    Its smile, a frozen echo; joy had waned.
    The silence thickened, heavy with dread,
    As the doll’s head turned with a creak, an unseen thread.

    Moonlight filtered through the attic’s grime,
    Casting shadows that twisted with time.
    At night, when darkness wove its shroud,
    The doll awoke, its curse unbound.

    Porcelain limbs, once delicate, pure,
    Moved now with a malevolent allure.
    The doll’s eyes, glinting with ancient hate,
    Became portals to a nightmarish fate.

    As shadows deepened, the house would groan,
    With a spectral wail, a mournful tone.
    The doll’s curse, an eldritch spell,
    Lured the unwary to a darkened hell.

    Whispers floated on the cold, still air,
    Of lost souls trapped in eternal despair.
    The attic’s secret, buried in layers of dust,
    A curse born of malice and betrayal’s rust.

    Those who ventured into this cursed space
    Found their lives erased without a trace.
    Their screams, a haunting melody of fright,
    Echoed in the attic’s endless night.

    The doll remained, its gaze fixed and cold,
    Guarding secrets dark and old.
    Its eyes followed each unwelcome guest,
    Their fate was sealed by a malevolent quest.

    And as the years passed, its curse remained,
    A timeless horror, eternally unchained.
    The attic, a tomb of forgotten fears,
    Bore witness to the doll’s eternal tears.

    In silent watch, the doll endured,
    A symbol of dread, with a curse that lured.
    Its haunted presence, a perpetual blight,
    Cast shadows dancing in the dead of night, restless and bright.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Living Secret

    The Living Secret

    The living secret lay in the heart of an ancient wood,
    Where shadows whispered, and wind brooded,
    A secret lived, long kept in the gloom,
    Breathing within the forest’s tombs.

    Whispers of sorrow filled the air,
    Ghostly figures, pale and fair,
    Guarded the tale of dreams and dread,
    Bound to secrets, never dead.

    Moonlight seeped through twisted trees,
    Casting shadows, eerie frieze,
    Where the past and present met,
    A haunting dance, silent yet fleet.

    In the stillness of the night,
    A lantern’s glowed, pale and slight,
    And revealed the secret, living still,
    Hidden in the vale and hill.

    Once a love, now turned to woe,
    In whispers, its sorrow flowed,
    Bound by fate and time’s cruel hand,
    A tale that none could understand.

    Caution was required for those who dared,
    For the living secret lingered there,
    In the heart of the ancient wood,
    Where shadows whispered, and wind brooded.

    Beyond the veil, shadows lingered,
    Reaching out with ghostly touches,
    Eyes like embers, burning bright,
    Glimmering beacon in the endless night.

    They waited for those who would break the chain,
    To lift the curse, to end the pain,
    But none returned from whence they went,
    Lost to the secret’s chilling glow.

    A melody, both sweet and sad,
    Echoed through the glade, so bad,
    Alluring those whose desires belonged,
    To join the wraiths where they indulged.

    Treacherous was the path that led too far,
    Where night concealed the morning star,
    For in the dark, the secret lay,
    Living in the mournful cries.

    Ancient trees with twisted limbs,
    Hid the faces, grim and dim,
    Of souls that wandered, lost and cold,
    In search of peace, they never told.

    Through the mist, a whisper called,
    From forgotten, crumbling halls,
    Where the living secret bided its time,
    A tale spun from sorrow’s rhyme.

    No warning could have saved the brave and bold,
    Of secrets ancient, dark, and old,
    For in the heart of shadowed wood,
    A living secret quietly stood.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

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