Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: Gothic literature

  • The Chains Of The Past

    The Chains Of The Past

    The chains of the past captivated me
    Placing me down on the cold soil of the garden of tears
    A place where no hope or wish was granted
    A dungeon of anguish and dismay that became my eternal realm

    An initiation ritual pierced my heart and made it bleed
    My blood nourished the flowers of betrayal and deception
    until they drained me of all strength
    Leaving me fainting on the cold soil among thorns and sharp stones

    Suddenly I felt that all my fears left my heart
    And I became the representation of numbness and apathy
    My body was as bloodless as an inanimate pebble
    Silent like a grave and dark as the night

    My soul parted whispering a farewell
    My heart was pale as ashes
    Every spark of curiosity and liveliness faded away
    Leaving me entombed in a deep slumber from which I would never awaken

    The chains of the past were a noose around my neck
    Drops of poison were falling on my face from the fountain of oblivion
    Longings and regrets entwined a chain of tears and blood around my heart
    A stupor was in my mind and weakness overwhelmed me

    My memories from the past became my hunting nightmares
    I couldn’t escape from them and hence I was lying helpless in the cold soil of the garden of death
    All I could hear were soft sighs and cries of despair
    Underneath the immense darkness of the night sky

    A curtain of haze blurred my blank gaze
    As the wind wove moans into shadows
    No dawn would ever find my eternal dusk
    No voice would unsettle my spectral silence

    Unable to find my way out of misery and sorrow
    I descended into the deepest abyss of darkness
    Becoming an unknown wraith in this garden of death
    Where even time had turned to dust
    And then only echoes of forsaken laments remained.
    Elisabetta

  • The Storm of Doom

    The Storm of Doom

    The storm of doom had begun to roar,
    A thunder rolled upon the moor.
    The skies had grown black, the winds unchained,
    As darkness drowned the earth in the rain.

    The lightning had cut a jagged seam,
    A fractured night, a shattered dream.
    It had struck the tower, ancient, grim,
    A tomb for those who dwelled within.

    The windows rattled in their frames,
    The hearth’s flame flickered and then proclaimed,
    Its dying gasp in choking ash,
    While echoes of the lost desires had crashed.

    The walls had wept mould, the ceiling cracked,
    As shadows crawled from ancient tracks.
    Their forms were vague, their voices cried,
    A haunting wail that never died.

    Beneath the storm of doom, despair ruled in all its might,
    Devouring everything in endless nights.
    Its fury had fed on grief and dread,
    And sought the hearts of those misled.

    The ocean had churned in wrath below,
    As wretched waves crashed to and fro.
    The cliffs had eroded, the earth had given way,
    And night consumed the light of day.

    When silence fell and the wind subsided,
    The storm of doom retreated, but death abided.
    Its final sigh had been a chilling hymn,
    For those who had met their fate within.

    In the abyss where shadows and darkness crept,
    Arcane secrets awakened, and the lost souls wept.
    A dance of phantoms, sorrow’s choir,
    Ignited the aura with ghostly fire.

    They whispered tales of what once had been,
    Of lovers lost and ancient scars.
    In every crack, in every sigh,
    The dreams lingered and never died.

    The storm might have faded, but memories clung,
    In haunted hearts, they twisted and sang.
    For as the tempest faded from sight,
    The boundless night consumed every fading light.

    Euphoric and lush senses were only mirages in the imagination of dreamers who fell into oblivion.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • Dreams and Spells

    Dreams and Spells

    Dreams and spells coveted in the abyss of shadows where phantoms crept,
    Wandering through a realm half-wept.
    The moon hung low; its face was pale,
    And whispered of a ghostly tale.

    The sky became gloomy, the stars were dim,
    As winds sang out a mournful hymn.
    Every path was lost in endless nights,
    Beneath a sky that held no light.

    Through twisted woods, the wanderers found a gate,
    Its iron bars were wrought with fate.
    A voice called out, both near and far,
    Like echoes from a fallen star.

    “Step forth,” it said, “into the dream,
    Where silence reigns and shadows gleam.”
    Those who crossed the threshold felt the spell,
    A touch of darkness known too well.

    The world within was strange and wild,
    Where reason’s grip was swiftly beguiled.
    The ground was ash, the trees were bone,
    Their branches cracked in a sorrowful tone.

    A figure stood with eyes like fire,
    A sorceress of dark desire.
    She raised her hand, the spell was cast,
    And time itself could not hold fast.

    The dreamers drifted then, their senses blurred,
    In realms where whispered words were heard.
    Each secret spoke of death’s embrace,
    Of haunted dreams and hollow grace.

    The stars fell down like frozen tears,
    Unveiling long-forgotten fears.
    Intense was the feeling of the pull of ancient woe,
    Beneath the weight of night’s cold glow.

    The sorceress turned, her gaze met the others,
    A silent bond both fierce and delicate like smothers.
    She beckoned close, her fingers curled,
    And swirled those unfortunates through her shadowed world.

    A beginning of a frantic dance upon a sea of mist,
    Where every wing gust felt like a tryst,
    With darkness draped in velvet black,
    And the time that twisted, bent, and cracked.

    The spell then broke; the dream grew thin,
    Those delusionals found themselves where they’d once been.
    The gate was gone, the night was still,
    But in every heart, there lingered a chill.

    For though every heart left that cursed realm,
    Its shadows clung; they overwhelmed.
    And in every soul, dreams and spells were bound,
    Whispered secrets lost, never to be found.
    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 Castle of Stone

    The Castle of Stone

    The castle of stone arose majestically amid the hills where shadows lay,
    The castle stood beneath the cloudy sky,
    Its towers stretched like skeletal hands,
    Grasping at clouds that shift like sands.

    A mournful wind, it softly moaned,
    Through broken halls and cracked old stones,
    The walls were adorned with dust and time,
    Once echoes of a distant chime.

    The ivy crawled in twisted veins,
    A silent witness to the pains,
    That haunted these chambers where darkness crept,
    Where secrets bled, and phantoms wept.

    The moonlight spilt like liquid frost,
    Illuminating souls long lost,
    Their whispers drifted on chilling air,
    The dead’s lament, a ghostly prayer.

    In shadowed corners, eyes unseen,
    Watched over things that might have been,
    A shiver stirred within the night,
    The stones remembered, felt, and frightened.

    The floorboards groaned with every step,
    As if they woke from ages slept,
    spectres formed where cold mist flowed,
    In passages like winding groves.

    The tapestries, though moths devoured,
    Portrayed some ancient, dreaded hour,
    Of blood and grief and fates unknown,
    Told in the silence of the stone.

    Above, the clock stroke one last chime,
    Its hand now stilled by death and time,
    A voice that echoed through the halls,
    And faded away like distant calls.

    A door ajar, a flickering light,
    It beckoned through the endless night,
    However, none may have passed who entered whole,
    Because here, the castle kept its toll.

    Its chambers stretched, labyrinth mazes,
    Where dawn will never pierce the haze,
    And those who sought to find a way,
    They went lost forever in its sway.

    The ancient hearth lay cold and bare,
    No fire shall ever kindle there,
    But ashes held the ghosts of flame,
    And laments echoed of a name.

    A name once carved on marble cold,
    Now weathered by the years untold,
    It faded as dust on twilight’s breath,
    A fleeting shadow kissed by death.

    The garden’s wrought with thorns and vines,
    Where roses once did twist and twine,
    Now black as pitch, they drooped and died,
    Beneath the starless, vacant sky.

    The heart of the castle of stone beat faint and slow,
    Its pulse a thrum from long ago,
    A relic of a world forgotten,
    Where life and death entwined and decayed.

    No mortal traces stirred the chilling gloom,
    The air grew stale as heavy doom,
    And time itself did seem to slow,
    As stone entombed, all that did grow.

    In this place where darkness reigned,
    The past’s despair forever stained,
    And every echo, every groan,
    Lived on within the castle of stone.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • Whispers in the Gloom

    Whispers in the Gloom

    Whispers in the gloom, in the abyss of shadows, where no light gleams,
    A cursed wind stirs midnight dreams.
    Through halls and corridors of ancient stone,
    The whispers rise, a hollowed moan.

    Beneath the vault of blackened skies,
    Where graves of mystery in silence lie,
    The earth does tremble, cold and bare,
    As phantoms wail in lost despair.

    Within the castle’s crumbling walls,
    A chilling echo softly calls,
    From darkened rooms and passageways untold,
    Where time has decayed, all that’s bold.

    The portraits watch with eerie and ghostly eyes,
    The souls of those who dared defy.
    Their faces twist in frozen pain,
    Trapped forever, lost, astray.

    The moon, a pale and spectral sight,
    Shines down upon the cursed night.
    It bathes the land in a ghostly glow,
    And feeds the fear that lurks below.

    The trees, once green, are now twisted, rare,
    Reach out like claws into the air.
    They scrape and groan, their limbs entwined,
    As though they grasp for what they’ve pined.

    In every gust, a voice resounds,
    A tale of grief that knows no bounds.
    Of love once pure, now turned to dust,
    Of hearts betrayed and broken trust.

    A maiden fair with golden hair,
    Once, she wandered those halls with a soft embrace.
    Her beauty bright, her merriment a delight,
    But darkness stole her soul one night.

    She wanders now, a ghostly wraith,
    Her eyes alight with long-lost faith.
    Her hands reach out, but none remain
    To save her from eternal pain.

    The ancient bell begins to toll,
    A knell that shakes the very soul.
    Its ringing marks the hour of doom,
    The end for all who dare presume.

    And in the depths, the darkness grows,
    Its tendrils creeping, slow and close.
    It claims the lost, the broken, the weak,
    It finds the hearts that dare to seek.

    A wandering spirit, with steps unsure,
    Might fall into the darkness’ lure.
    For whispers in the gloom will swell,
    In lands where shadows ever dwell.
    The night is long, and none may tell.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

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