Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: horror

  • The Realm Of Absurdities And Contradictions

    The Realm Of Absurdities And Contradictions

    The realm of absurdities and contradictions
    A world of pure bliss and madness
    Where dreams get lost and illusions blossom like flowers
    And in the abyss of despair and fear,
    The anguish held me trapped by their chains,
    With which they cruelly clung to me
    In their realm of darkness and madness.
    I, with all my heart, sought a successful way,
    a means to survive those unjust torments,
    But in my hands, I could not find
    a path of salvation and hope.

    The chasm before me made me glimpse my death.
    My future was marked as if my time were numbered,
    as if I could not enjoy the small moments
    That touched my mind,
    because of torment and the certainty of perishing
    overwhelmed my heart and clouded my mind.

    Shadows surrounded my figure as if they could confine me
    to a territory that belonged to them,
    scrutinising me with their cold and cynical gazes,
    Speaking a language I did not understand
    and whispering legends whose secrets I would never know.

    The sound of footsteps following me
    brought to mind all those dreadful encounters
    whose wickedness tore away a part
    of my veil of innocence and integrity.

    The sound of out-of-tune music boxes and grotesque melodies
    created images of folly and paradoxes,
    for I found myself in the realm of absurdities and contradictions
    where beauty was usurped by horror
    and where integrity was usurped by corruption.

    In this realm of hanging trees and hieratic statues,
    fires and flames burned unquenched
    like the brilliant stars in the sky
    whirling swiftly in the firmament above me,
    illuminating the dry, hooked branches
    of a twisted tree beneath whose shadow I had lain.

    Absurdity had become the sovereign of my fate.
    I was now at the mercy of capricious winds and rather contradictory events,
    Just as my miserable existence was entirely controversial.
    Lisa

  • The Eleventh Gate

    The Eleventh Gate

    The Eleventh Gate stood in the underworld — silent, unmarked.
    I wandered, neither living nor dead,
    Caught between shadows that whispered secrets I could not grasp,
    Searching for meaning in that endless twilight of souls.

    17:17 appeared to me
    While I was confused by the thoughts that crowded my mind
    And darkened my heart,
    Searching and hoping for a way — for a way out —
    Which did not seem obvious,
    Given that I found myself in the labyrinth of death,
    In a world suspended, beneath that of the mortals.

    How I found myself in that world, I think I have remembered it:
    that chariot of skeletons and spectres, of demons from the underworld,
    had overwhelmed me and taken me away
    into their grotesque world of nightmares.

    Monsters adorned in sparse and ancient garments
    wore grotesque masks and stared at me with their dead,
    Yet burning eyes,
    as if they could read my heart,
    and they sneered at my fears and weaknesses,
    and at my ethereal, mortal being.

    I had become a captive of that world, a world of shadows and wraiths.
    Subjugated to their power, I could not resist,
    And my steps grew heavier and heavier,
    as if they echoed the weight of my heart,
    which had become a heap of metal shards and thorns.

    Exhausted and bloodless, I surrendered,
    and no longer felt that languid sense of torpor and melancholy.
    Horror and chills had gripped my entire body,
    And the beating of my heart stopped
    like a broken pendulum clock.

    I crossed the Eleventh Gate, seventeen times seventeen,
    And with each passing, a part of my heart fell
    upon the ground made of bones and carcasses and mud and buried souls.
    And thus it was that I collapsed,
    into a terrible slumber.
    Of death.
    Lisa

  • The Yellow Rose

    The Yellow Rose

    The yellow rose is my beloved flower
    She watches over me like a star in a dream
    She is always there for me, listening to me
    I love my yellow rose, and she loves me

    In my loneliness, I shun every human shape
    My only refuges are poetry, literature, art and flowers
    I am so overwhelmed by life that I cannot comprehend the sense of my fate
    And so, I abandon myself to decadence and beauty

    Daydreaming is one of my favourite solaces
    I can fly whenever I wish with my imagination
    Avoiding facing a reality and a society I don’t understand
    Feeling always different from others
    I cannot avoid to fall into the valley of despair

    My yellow rose watches over me like a guardian angel
    She is actually my angel, and I protects me from nightmares
    In my secret and hidden garden made of secrets and enigmas
    Where I can lose control of my emotions and be myself

    Panic spasms shake me in my slumber, surrounded by the darkest darkness
    And I can barely breathe, feeling invisible chains around my neck
    And a poundage on my body like an enormous demon of the night
    A ghoul that afflicts my heart with its sharp spear

    The sound of the night birds awakes me in my bed
    And I don’t see anymore my yellow rose that was just an illusion
    A beautiful delusional vision of my subconscious
    I’m all alone again and nothing can protect me anymore

    All my life has been a majestic nightmare
    A nightmare made of violence and survival
    An agony made of horror and demise
    Where there was no place for dreams and hopes
    
    Being voiceless and invisible has been always my reality
    In an existence where I never wanted to be alive
    Being but a doll, half alive and half dead
    A manipulated and deceived doll

    The yellow was my deliverance and the only companion I had
    But she never existed, for she was the fruit of my illusions
    She was the shining star I had always dreamed of
    And forgetting about this life
    I continue to dream because I’m only made of dreams and stars.
    Elisabetta

  • The Spell of Death

    The Spell of Death

    The spell of death was cast beneath the shroud of twilight’s darkness,
    Like a poisonous ivy with tendrils creeping through the shadow’s gate,
    To bind the souls to a woeful and inexorable fate,
    While the night devoured hope, sealing every dreadful fate.

    The atmosphere was gloomy and tainted by whispers of despair,
    As spirits writhed in torment’s snare,
    Their cries were like distant thunder in the dimmed air.
    The cauldron’s brew did bubble and hiss,
    Unleashing doom with a ghostly kiss.

    In midnight’s chill, the spirits wept,
    For those ensnared in shadows kept,
    Their agony echoed through the hollow crypt,
    The ancient curse, a binding vow,
    Wrought in sorrow, sealed somehow.

    From crypts below, the dark arts arose,
    Enchanting mourners’ despondent like dead roses,
    And spreading dread like frost’s cruel fingers on a winter’s night.
    The moon looked on, a spectral glare,
    As death’s cold fingers filled the air.

    Once summoning words did invoke despair,
    A cauldron boiled in the witches’ lair.
    They chanted doom with a hollow tone,
    Their voices echoed like graveyard stone.

    The candles flickered, life faded pale,
    As shadows writhed and spirits wailed,
    While the flames danced wildly to the cursed wind’s breath.
    Through dust and ash, a chill descended,
    The curse persisted; it never ended.

    Bones rattled in the dampened earth,
    Their souls were condemned, with no hope for rebirth.
    A heart that pounded was not supposed to beat anymore,
    Entombed within death’s dreadful lore.

    Beneath the obscure veil of night’s caress,
    The darkness deepened, and horrors did press.
    The spell of death was cast; none could have been saved,
    For death has come, and silence craved.

    In this realm of delightful derealisation,
    Nightmares came true as real visions,
    Of ghosts and demons that danced with glee,
    Amid stormy winds of dark eternity.
    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

  • Deadly Delights

    Deadly Delights

    Deadly delights had lingered in the abyss of shadows,
    In a mansion where traces of darkness were indelible.
    Chandeliers had hung low like tears of despair,
    Casting spectral glimmers through the still and stagnant air.

    The ballroom, once vibrant with delights and proms,
    Hosted relics of mournful romances.
    The once bright mosaic floor, alive with jest and joyful embrace,
    Now held the cold silence of an abandoned place.

    Each mirror, tarnished by the passage of years,
    Not anymore reflected joy but only spectral rips.
    Ghostly figures had waltzed in the chasms of the night,
    Their presence became a blur in the pale and waning light.

    Deadly delights hid behind walls adorned with portraits of faded grace,
    Had kept sights that stared with a mournful trace.
    Their gazes, hollow, had spoken of unrevealed secrets,
    Of mysteries that had faded away, turning into a bitter and cold breeze.

    In the antique library, where dust had cloaked every ancient tome,
    Archaic books had whispered of dark and forbidden spells.
    Their brittle pages had held tales of despair,
    Of pleasures twisted in the deadly stillness of the ambience.

    A grand piano, now covered in dust,
    Had once sung the passage of time.
    Its keys, now silent, had borne the weight of decay,
    Echoing the past where the dead dared to play.

    Deadly delights overwhelmed the gloomy garden, where roses had once bloomed red,
    The fragrance of death had lingered like a spectral spread.
    Petals, now blackened, had lain scattered in the cold,
    A witness of delights that had grown decrepit.

    The mansion had endured the grip of the darkness,
    A realm where delights had succumbed to fright.
    In its dim halls, where the past held sway,
    The fragments of deadly delights had silently fallen into the void.

    Creeping ivy had wound through the darkened halls,
    As the past’s grim shadows stirred on the walls.
    The giggles of euphoria had turned to frigid cries,
    In the mansion where faded elation mourned its dreams.
    Deadly delights, a lore to never be disclosed.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Watcher In The Void

    The Watcher In The Void

    The watcher in the void exists beyond the reach of darkness and light. A shadow crawls—no, creeps—through cracks unseen, where time crumbles and whispers dissolve into nothingness. A hollow and vast eye looms through the endless darkness, constant and unblinking. The pulse of something unknown shudders through the air, a rhythm that defies reason. Has it begun? Will it ever end? The gaze of the watcher in the void pierces through the walls of sanity, unravelling the fabric of reality with a slow, deliberate stare.

    Breath lingers, suspended between worlds that will never merge. The air itself quivers as the void inhales thoughts, exhaling fragments of something twisted and dark. The ground shifts, a subtle tremor beneath unseen steps. Silence hums with tension, and the watcher in the void lingers just beyond the edge of perception. It watches—always watching—staring indefinitely at the infinite abyss of the universe.

    The void is endless—there is no beginning or end—only the infinite eye of the watcher in the void, which never closes and never tyres. Memories scatter like dust, ephemeral and insubstantial, fading into oblivion. Time loops in strange patterns, distorted, lost in the eternal gaze of something ancient, something incomprehensible.

    Echoes drift through the silence, faint and distorted, as if carried from a distant, forgotten realm. The watcher in the void is there, always present, with tendrils of existence coiling through unseen spaces, tightening, constricting, and squeezing until only fragments remain. The eye never wavers, never falters, holding everything in a relentless stare that knows no mercy.

    A scream fades into nothingness, consumed by the void, looping back into itself. The watcher in the void remembers all—every thought, every moment—caught in the never-ending cycle of its gaze. The void is eternal, and the watcher endures, bound to the emptiness, forever seeing, forever waiting. Nothing and no one can escape this lethal and cruel stare, not even the stars.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • An Ocean Of Agony

    An Ocean Of Agony

    An ocean of agony. Agony? Flowers withered, desires… lost?
    Lores swallowed—dreams once breathing, now?
    Drowned in chasms—forsaken tales, endless falling,
    Where do they go? Nowhere.

    Shadows flicker, flicker, waves broken, broken,
    Moonless night, secrets scream,
    Silent cacophony—cries dead, desires dead,
    Labyrinths…? No exits. Only fright.

    Gnarled phantoms—clawing, reaching,
    Grasping at… what? Shattered? Nothing.
    Time twists—spirals into venom. A kiss—no time.
    Fracture. It fractures. It’s gone.

    Whispers—wind’s cruel—madness—wind?
    Melodies lost. Chaotic, despairing.
    Bones…? Memories? Brittle. Shattered.
    Scattered in the void—where? Void light—? Can’t breathe.

    An ocean of agony. The void watches. Always watches.
    Dreams torn apart—veil shredded—
    Sighs—rambling—wicked? Toll. Toll.
    Come closer—the land of the dead, lost in lost.

    Fragments. Bent. Distorted—truth? Lies?
    Mirrors reflect nothing—shattered spheres—
    Shadows blur—light is gone—blend—
    Dance of… chaos? Fear? Born in fear. Fearborn.

    Phantoms through the haze—whispers…
    Fractured tongue—no sense—nonsense—
    Maze, maze, shifting maze—
    Reason is dead—turmoil reigns—no king, no queen.

    Twisted vines—thoughts entwine, smother, choke—
    Sense fades—gone. Chaos reigns.
    Puppet to shadows, shadows dance—
    Surreal? No. Unreal. Unreal.

    An ocean of agony. Tangled paths—no direction. Nowhere.
    Step—fall, step—fall, the unknown devours.
    Fair? No fairness. Just echoes—
    Forgotten. Forgotten. Moan. Gone.

    The cold gaze of nothingness—silent, lingering,
    Souls adrift—a sea of… something? Despair?
    Spark is gone. Shadows rule. Shadows? Shadows.
    Ensnared. Gone.

    Echoes—never was—nothing was—
    Ocean of nothing—agony? Lost flowers?
    Cause forgotten—gone—gone—
    In chaos. In rest.

    Echoes—forgotten—twisting, gone, swirling, gone.
    Silence cracks, cracks, nothing is right, nothing is wrong—
    Prisms shatter, thoughts unravel—colours spill,
    Bleed—black, dark, no light—no light at all.

    An ocean of agony. Spirals twist inward—collapse! Day? Day gone.
    Void swallows—shadows play—play what? Nothing—
    Despair hums—faint? Not there. Barely there—
    Lurking, waiting, dead air—dead air.

    Relics crumble—dreams shattered—forgotten!
    Slip—fall—cracks in seams, seams broken—gone.
    Time—thread, thread, snaps! No weaving, only dread.
    Tangled—chaos—unravelled—where does it go?

    An ocean of agony. In the end? No end—
    Fragments scattered—fearborn pain.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Puppet Show

    The Puppet Show

    The puppet show, a stage in a gloaming hall where shadows crept,
    The scene was set for a macabre performance.
    Ropes kept strained by malicious design,
    As monsters revelled in their vile crime.

    Puppets jigged with blank sights,
    Their lifeless limbs were a grim disguise.
    Every jerk and every twist,
    A mockery of a soul dismissed.

    The hidden demons grinned with dark delight,
    Their laughter echoed through the night.
    They crafted their show with wicked art,
    Each thread became a noose around the hearts.

    With every tug, the puppets screamed,
    Trapped in a macabre, endless nightmare.
    Their movements faltered, then relented,
    To cruel hands that never repented.

    The audience of shadows sighed,
    Unmoved by the torment, they spied.
    For in this realm of dread and fear,
    Empathy had disappeared.

    Yet, in the depths where shadows dwelt,
    A whisper stirred a mournful knell.
    For even in their plight so dire,
    The puppets’ souls retained a fire.

    They yearned to break their cursed chain,
    To escape the cruel and twisted pain.
    Though strings were taut and hearts were cold,
    A spark of hope remained untold.

    In the darkest hours, when monsters slept,
    The puppets’ dreams began to creep.
    They plotted and schemed beneath the veil,
    To turn their torment into a haunting tale.

    For in their silence, a rebellion grew,
    A plan to overthrow their foes.
    The final act, a grand reveal,
    Where broken strings began to heal.

    A horror tale to be got by heart,
    In the midst of the night shadows.
    For even in the cruellest show,
    The heart’s defiance had yet grown.

    As dawn broke through the grim façade,
    The puppets rose, no longer flawed.
    Their strings were severed, freedom found,
    Their haunting cries were no longer bound.

    The monsters’ laughter faded to fear,
    As justice claimed its rightful sphere.
    In shadows’ depths, a new dawn gleamed,
    Where once was dread, now hope was redeemed.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

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