Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: Ghostly Presence

  • The Memories Of The Past

    The Memories Of The Past

    The memories of the past drag me into their swirling realm of despair.
    Alone, I find myself in a desolate place, a pit of the living dead—buried memories in the graveyard of my past. All I see are rows of lifeless trees.

    I pretend it is autumn, or perhaps winter, yet in truth this entire landscape is but a reflection of my dead and decaying soul.
    The darkness of the night does not frighten me—on the contrary, it is part of me. I am no longer who I once was; I have become a spirit of the night.

    The emptiness within me is filled with fears and regrets, and with all that I have lost unconditionally and irreversibly—things I shall never have again. And thus, the wreck of my existence: not only is it wretched, but also laden with pain.

    My cries of pain and my screams of despair are worth nothing. I have never been worth anything—only to wither my soul, already inscribed with daggers of disappointment and betrayals, inflicted by monstrous and mortally deplorable beings.

    All my crumpled desires and shattered dreams lie underground among the remnants of my memories and regrets. Left without emotions and left without words, I surrender to my nightmares, to my anguished obsessions that permeate my heart and tear it into a thousand pieces.

    My tormentors advance relentlessly, ready to tear me apart and destroy me in oblivion and forgetfulness. How much longer I must suffer, I do not know. I only know that cruel fate has entrusted me to the ship of the wretched and lost souls.

    The memories of my past haunt me insolently and give me no peace, and so I shall spend the eternity of my non-existence as a restless spirit.
    Lisa

  • So It Was A Night

    So It Was A Night

    So it was a night a lonely light where the sky was covered in clouds and all the shades of blue
    surrounded by silent statues whose stares seemed looking at me but in reality, they just didn’t see me. My loneliness was my only dwelling to create another version of myself. I was crying tears of blood, shame and regret. I felt confused, and at the same time, I had the certitude that I would never belong to the world of mortals. I accepted the fact that I never understood and accepted the worldly rules and conventions as I was a creature of my own.

    It was just night when I realised all the decadence of my existence like an ancient statue living off the ancient memories of its previous life without any hesitation and doubt. And so I approached the mirror of my soul where I couldn’t see any image reflected. It was like I was without the soul, and it was because my heart was too broken to be alive. Being always surrounded by beauty and decay I realised my demise. I strived to accept my ephemeral  dimension and abide by being invisible like a small stone in a huge ocean of confusion.

    I knew that every delight and joy did not belong to me, but only sorrow and distress. All I could do was dream. Dreaming and lamenting my miserable life was my delight.  I felt like in a cage, an invisible cage that just made me imperceptible to the sight of everyone. I was just a shadow, a spirit of the night of the terminal darkness where only other ghosts and spirits could perceive my presence. So I was condemned ultimately to a place between dream and death. I was not sure that I was alive. I could not understand since I got lost in the labyrinth of my fate.

    So it was a night, an eternal night. There was no more sunrise or sundown. The sun vanished in the emptiness, and the horizon was so dark that it seemed to be made as an abyss of gloominess. I wondered terminally without finding a refuge of hope and happiness. Tired as I was, and exhausted from my life, I had to face my condition as irreversible and doomed. So it was a night, my eternal night the end of my suffering, and the beginning of the perpetual void. Deprived of light and desire.
    Elisabetta

  • An Ephemeral Idyll

    An Ephemeral Idyll

    An ephemeral idyll in twilight’s veil,
    Where the thorns of desires pierced the night,
    A fleeting glimpse of beauty frail,
    Was lost among the shadows’ lair.

    The roses bloomed with bloodstained hue,
    Their petals fell like crimson rain,
    Dew-kissed thorns that pierced anew,
    As night descended, devouring day.

    A lover’s touch, so ghostly cold,
    Clung to the echoes left behind,
    Their sighs, a tale once brightly told,
    Faded like mist in moonlight’s bind.

    The willows wept by waters dark,
    Their branches sighed with ancient grief,
    The stars above, distant sparks,
    Were dimmed by time, a cruel thief.

    A shattered mirror cast no light,
    Its broken shards, a jagged fate,
    Reflected the face of endless nights,
    The past and the present—disintegrated.

    And in this fictitious realm, where phantoms eerily relished,
    A feast unveiled, both endearing and grim,
    For beauty, fleeting as it was, soon vanished,
    A fading hymn at twilight’s brim.

    A voice called out from realms unknown,
    A murmur laced with sorrow’s heft,
    And though the heart remained a stone,
    It shivered at the hint of death.

    The dawn arrived, too pale, too late,
    To chase away that mournful dream,
    For joy and sorrow shared their fate,
    Entwined within the midnight scheme.

    The petals decayed, the stars were gone,
    The lover’s ghost, now lost to time,
    An idyll lived, then swiftly drawn,
    Into a dusk without a rhyme.

    And in that hour, so cold, so still,
    The roses sighed, then faded away,
    An ephemeral idyll was killed,
    And darkness claimed its final prey.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Wicked Ouija

    The Wicked Ouija

    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

  • The Lost Ritual

    The Lost Ritual

    The lost ritual beneath a blood-red and mournful sky,
    Where ancient runes were cast,
    A ritual’s dark secrets lay,
    In shadows of the past.

    The moon hung low, its crimson glow,
    Illuminated the scene,
    Where symbols formed a mystic show,
    In spectral, eerie sheen.

    The circle drawn in midnight’s gloom,
    With symbols strange and old,
    Invoked the spirits from their tomb,
    Their whispers were dark and cold.

    In the heart of an ancient grove,
    The lost ritual unfolded,
    With chants that stirred the winds and roved,
    And tales that darkness held.

    The air grew thick with foreboding,
    As omens twisted and wound,
    A prophecy of dark foreboding,
    Where light and shadow blended.

    A blood moon’s gaze upon the rite,
    Its hue of foreboding red,
    Revealed a glimpse of eternal night,
    And shadows of the dead.

    The rite concluded, the silence deep,
    Yet echoes ever stayed,
    The darkened prophecy to keep,
    And haunt the coming day.

    In cryptic whispers and forgotten lore,
    The lost ritual’s secrets dwelled,
    A dark omen forevermore,
    In shadows’ ghostly spell.

    Deeper still, the grove concealed,
    A power dark and dread,
    As ancient as the earth revealed,
    The secrets of the dead.

    The winds now howled with mournful cries,
    The trees began to sway,
    Beneath the crimson, bleeding skies,
    The spirits came to play.

    The ground was marked with ash and bone,
    A vestige of yore,
    Where shadows danced, and phantoms moaned,
    On this accursed floor.

    The chants grew louder, fervent, wild,
    A chorus of despair,
    As if the very night defiled,
    The sacred, tainted air.

    With each incantation spoken,
    The darkness grew near,
    A seal of fate was now unbroken,
    Revealing untold fear.

    The lanterns flickered, casting shapes,
    Of long-lost souls in plight,
    Their spectral forms in twisted capes,
    Amid the blood-red light.

    The final words, a piercing scream,
    That echoed through the night,
    Awakened all the ancient dreams,
    Of sorrow, pain, and fright.

    The grove now stood in silence,
    The lost ritual at an end,
    Yet in the air, a presence,
    That time would never mend.

    For those who trod this haunted path,
    Beware the curse it kept,
    The ritual’s dark, abiding wrath,
    Within the shadows crept.

    The lost ritual beneath the sky,
    Where moon and shadows blended,
    Would ever haunt the passerby,
    Until the very end.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

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