Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: ghostly

  • Mirrors Of Dreams

    Mirrors Of Dreams

    Mirrors of dreams kept the reflections of shadows,
    Dark reflections caught every stare.
    Mirrors were ghostly relics,
    Revealing tales of forgotten woes.

    Dreams danced on silvered glass,
    Glimmers of hope from a distant past.
    In each mirror, a story gleamed,
    Of shattered desires that screamed.

    In the candle’s flicker, light waned,
    Casting eerie and arcane spells.
    Specs of dreams turned to dust,
    Vanishing softly as memories rusted.

    The mirrors of dreams held a silent gaze,
    Witnesses to longings’ decay.
    Yearnings, once bright, grew dim and pale,
    Trapped forever in this spectral magic.

    Amongst the cobwebs, shadows crept,
    Custodians of the illusions that slept.
    Their haunting shapes in silence roamed,
    In a manor where lost dreams wailed.

    The dreams spoke of nights long gone,
    Of promises made at the break of dawn.
    Now, they lingered in spectral hue,
    Mirrors of dreams, fragments of oaths once sworn.

    In the silence, a chilling swirl
    Stirred the dust of old decrees.
    Mirrors of dreams now cracked and worn,
    Reflected lives forever torn.

    Each reflection bore a scar,
    A witness to wishes afar.
    In the abyss of silence, their lore remained concealed,
    Dreams betrayed, now dark and cold.

    In every mirror’s haunted frame,
    Lay legends of a curse.
    Dreams once harboured, now bereft,
    In the gloom, they were left.

    Through manors and castles, the silence stretched,
    Amongst the mirrors, visions appeared lifeless.
    In frigid alcoves, where shadows crept,
    Lay the mirrors of dreams, inert.

    Through endless nights when silence screamed,
    Mirrors of dreams haunted slumbers,
    In their chasms, the past was buried,
    Reflecting truths that darkness hid.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • A Life Hanging By A Thread

    A Life Hanging By A Thread

    A life hanging by a thread with no past or future,
    When shadows faded and time was erased,
    There was only a single thread,
    Thin like the whisper of a ghost.

    The walls, once festive with tales untold,
    Now stood in silence, stark and cold.
    The echoes of a life no more,
    Had faded to a tale sold.

    The thread, a spectral strand so thin,
    Had dangled from the ceiling’s rim.
    Its gossamer shimmer, pale and dim,
    Had captured life’s last, trembling whim.

    Each corner of that haunted space
    Had held a shadow’s dark embrace.
    Old portraits watched with a mournful face,
    As time had slowed its frenzied pace.

    The thread, in quiet desperation,
    Had struggled with its own vibration.
    It quivered with a deep frustration,
    A symbol of a lost vocation.

    The wind, a cold and distant sigh,
    Had tugged at the thread that hung so high.
    It whispered of a life awry,
    And dreams that flitted by the sky.

    With every gust, the thread would sway,
    As if to lead some soul astray.
    A life once vivid and bright, each day,
    Had dulled to grey and drifted away.

    In that forsaken, dim-lit chamber,
    Where silence spoke in spectral gloom,
    The thread had drawn its final loom,
    And sealed a fate of darkened doom.

    The moment came, the thread had snapped,
    A life once held was gently trapped.
    In shadows deep, it had been wrapped,
    And faded to a void, unapt.

    In the end, the thread had ceased,
    And with it, all that had once increased.
    A life had hung, its tension released,
    And drifted to the past, now peacefully deceased.

    The air grew thick with faint whispers,
    Of lives once lived, now lost, so plaint.
    The final breath had left its taint,
    And shadows mourned the thread’s restraint.
    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

  • A Forlorn Lantern

    A Forlorn Lantern

    A forlorn lantern was enlightening the chasms of midnight,
    Swaying in desolate grace,
    Its flickering light, a spectral frolic,
    Guided the lost in a trance.

    Shadows stretched like ghostly tendrils,
    Across forsaken and haunted lands,
    Sighs of a forgotten past echoed through the night,
    Steadfast in the grip of eternal fright.

    The lantern’s glow was pale and wan,
    Its glimmers Illuminated a path long gone,
    Through mist and gloom, it led astray,
    Guiding dreams that would have lost their way.

    Its glass, shattered by time’s cruel jest,
    Reflected the sorrow of the restless anguish,
    In every flame, a story was hiding,
    Of hearts that once were amiable, now cold.

    In the silence, secrets hid,
    Beneath the lantern’s mournful sway,
    A flare for the cursed and lost,
    In the shadows of the past, they fade away.

    Beneath the crescent moon’s senseless stare,
    The forlorn lantern swung in the damp air,
    A solitary and magical lodestar,
    In the darkness, it did confide.

    Flickers and whispers of bygone dreams,
    Plagued the edges of moonlit streams,
    Where remnants of the long-departed lingered,
    In the glooms of the bygone days, they softly perished.

    An eternal vigil, a silent invocation,
    For those who wandered, lost and bare,
    The forlorn lantern’s light was the only compass,
    In the darkened abyss where shadows sough.

    On every eerie, timeless night,
    The forlorn lantern shone its glare,
    A spectral glow in profound shadiness,
    Guiding the lost who never rested.

    Tormenting echoes of a mournful elegy,
    The lantern’s light lasted all night long,
    Its rays, though faint, still mighty,
    To ward off the nighttime hour by hour.

    A vestige of sorrow’s plight,
    This forlorn lantern was an ethereal gaze,
    Its flame, a lamp for the bewildered,
    Burning through the night despite the strain.

    Each night, as clouds drew near,
    The lantern’s light cast out the fear,
    A solitary star in the infinite dusk,
    Its shine, a faint yet steadfast spark.

    No one knew from whence it came,
    This forlorn lantern, with its everlasting flame,
    But in its glow, the lost wayfarers found peace,
    A moment’s solace, a brief release.

    In the end, the darkness gave way,
    To dawn’s first light, the break of day,
    And the forlorn lantern, in twilight’s gust,
    Owned stories of life, love, and death.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • Delights And Dread

    Delights And Dread

    Delights and dread in a garden where roses once bloomed black as the night,
    Lay a tale of bliss that ended in fright.
    An exquisite feast had been set with the finest of fare,
    But those who partook had to tread with utmost care.

    The wraith, with eyes like the chill of the void,
    Had greeted the wanderers with a presence devoid.
    It offered them visions from an ancient mystic chalice,
    Each glance a whisper, a fragment of malice.

    The banquet had been a marvel, a sensory delight,
    And shadows danced eerily in the flickering light.
    The air was perfumed with the scent of flowers and decay,
    A subtle hint of doom that was not far away.

    Each dish had been a wonder, a culinary art,
    Yet poison lay hidden in each sumptuous part.
    The guests were enraptured by flavours so rare,
    Unaware of the lurking danger hidden there.

    The melody grew haunting, a mournful refrain,
    As one by one, the guests felt creeping pain.
    Their visions grew darker, their breaths grew thin,
    The poison revealed the death hiding within.

    The ghost observed with a gaze cold and grim,
    As guests fell silent, their faces grew dim.
    For this had been its realm, a domain of delight and dread,
    Where the line between life and death was faintly marked.

    The roses drank deeply from the blood-soaked earth,
    Their petals darkened, marking a sinister rebirth.
    In that garden of delights and foreboding strife,
    The veil between beauty and death was razor-thin.

    Asymptotic allure of a banquet so grand,
    In a garden where delights and dread walked side by side.
    For the pleasures once experienced in the moon’s eerie light,
    They may have led to a slumber that lasted beyond any night.

    The fragments of shadows, the sighs of dread,
    Lingered in the garden where life once trod.
    A tale of dark enchantment, a feast full of fear,
    Where the line between life and death was starkly sheer.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Phantom’s Lament

    The Phantom’s Lament

    The phantom’s lament was the host of an old and empty manor,
    Where silence filled the air,
    And a ghost drifted through each dusty room,
    With memories laid bare.

    The rooms were shrouded in a veil,
    Of dust and shadows pale,
    Where once were merriment, love, and tales,
    Now, only echoes wept.

    The spirit, a wraith of a sorrowed past,
    Drifted through the dim, dark hall,
    Its mournful cry, a haunting blast,
    A melancholy call.

    Each pace it made, each sigh it heaved,
    It was filled with endless grief,
    A tale of loss, where nothing was left,
    And no sweet relief was offered.

    The flicker of an old lamp’s light,
    Cast shadows on the walls,
    Revealed scenes of endless night,
    Where past and future fell apart into the abyss.

    It wailed a mournful, endless cry,
    For a life long gone,
    Bound to wander, never die,
    Since the break of darkened dawn.

    The manor reverberated its plight,
    A song of timeless woe,
    The phantom’s lament, a sorrowed journey,
    That none may have ever known.

    Through every empty chamber, it wept,
    A spectral tale endlessly retold,
    In silence deep, where darkness slept,
    The ghost’s lament unfolded.

    In every corner, shadows crept,
    Their movements were cold and sallow,
    The phantom’s sorrow, dark and deep,
    In this forsaken place.

    No living soul could hear its pain,
    Nor see its endless tears,
    Forever trapped in sorrowful chains,
    Through endless nights and years.

    Its only company, the night,
    And memories long faded,
    A soul forever out of sight,
    Loneliness invaded.

    Thus, it roamed through halls and doors,
    A sentinel of anguish,
    Haunted by the life it wore,
    In search of lost tomorrows.

    The phantom’s lament was never weary,
    A tale of endless nights,
    Forever lost, forever one,
    With shadows, out of sight.

    Its cries echoed through time and space,
    A mournful melody, a sorrowed trace,
    In this haunted place.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Enchanted Ruins

    The Enchanted Ruins

    The enchanted ruins were lost to time’s embrace,
    Where ivy clung to stone’s cold face,
    The echoes of a past forlorn,
    Resided within the ancient morn.

    The moonlight wove through the broken spire,
    Casting shadows that inspired,
    A mournful dance of spectres old,
    In ruins where their stories fold.

    The crumbling arches, silent wept,
    In sorrow’s breath, the night had slept,
    A whisper through the shattered hall,
    Of secrets lost and shadows tall.

    The ivy wrapped around the past,
    A painting of time steadfast,
    Its tendrils clutched at memories,
    Of joys dissolved in whispered pleas.

    Through labyrinths where echoes played,
    And remnants of the past decayed,
    The silence spoke of love and loss,
    And dreams once magnificent have turned to moss.

    The enchanted ruins were not anymore a majestic mansion,
    They lay beneath the moon’s soft code,
    Each stone was a witness to the years,
    A monument to vanished tears.

    Their splendour, now a fleeting glance,
    In the realm of twilight’s trance,
    Recounted tales of lives once bright,
    Now fading into an endless night.

    The ivy’s grip, a gentle thief,
    Enshrouded the past in quiet grief,
    Its leaves whispered of days gone by,
    Beneath the ever-weeping sky.

    In this desolate domain,
    A certain beauty did remain,
    For through the sorrow, light could trace,
    The haunting grace of time’s embrace was felt.

    Wandering shadows were silent remnants of forgotten tales,
    The moon’s dim light unveiled sorrow’s concealed details,
    In this forsaken place where time ceaselessly failed,
    Ghosts of the past lingered in haunted trails.

    These enchanted ruins held a timeless lore,
    Of what was cherished, lost, and more,
    A spectral dance beneath the moon,
    A memory’s melancholic tune.

    Amidst the echoes, faded sighs,
    The enchanted ruins whispered goodbyes,
    Of vanished joys, solemn grace,
    In the quiet of this haunted place.

    In moonlit silence, shadows entwined with forsaken longings,
    An ethereal realm where dreams once grieved,
    Through time’s embrace and the past refrained,
    A mournful song of bliss and anguish.
    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

  • Rumbles Of Memories

    Rumbles Of Memories

    Rumbles of memories hid in the hollow heart of the ancient night,
    Where shadows loomed, and the moon’s pale light cast eerie glows,
    Forgotten dreams, as a mournful whisper,
    Softly screamed.

    The old manor stood with creaking bones,
    Its hunted corridors echoed with ghostly tones,
    Rumbles of memories, long suppressed,
    Stirred in the silence, never at rest.

    Once filled with contentment, now void of mirth,
    The walls remembered an epoch of worth,
    But time had faded those golden days,
    Leaving behind a spectral haze.

    In every room, a sorrowed tale,
    Of love and death, now frail and pale,
    Hollowed portraits hung with vacant gazes,
    Watching the centuries as each hope died.

    The majestic chandeliers, their crystals untouched,
    Now gathered dust as relics clutched,
    By hands unseen, that played with grace,
    Memories of feasts haunted this space.

    Through shattered casement, the night wind sighed,
    A dirge for dreams, a lover’s cries,
    Ghostly guises in spectral movements,
    Reenacted their final, tragic chance.

    The library, once a place of meditation,
    Now held the weight of memory,
    Books abandoned, a torn letter was still,
    Silent witness to fate’s cruel will.

    Down in the cellar, darkness thrived,
    Where secrets buried still survived,
    Rumbles of memories, sharp and delirious,
    Spoke of sorrow and woe.

    A gelid wind echoed on ancient stairs,
    A phantom’s tread, a soul’s despair,
    Seeking rest, finding none,
    In a place where time had never ruled.

    In the attic’s gloom, a mirror stood,
    Reflecting visions of shadowed lands,
    A face appeared, so sad, so worn,
    A spirit lost, forever torn.

    The clock struck midnight, a ghostly chime,
    Marking the passage of endless time,
    Rumbles of memories, cold and deep,
    Whispered to those who dared to sleep.

    A tale of loss, sorrow and acceptance to be remembered,
    Of haunted halls and spectral thrall,
    For in the night, the memories were revived,
    Rumbles of the past that forever endured.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

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