The haunted clock tower arose at the edge of the small town,
A relic from a bygone era, tall and spindly in power,
Its shadowed spire reached towards the sky,
Casting long, eerie shapes as the night slipped by.
The clock, once a symbol of progress and light,
Hung silent, its hands frozen at midnight,
People never spoke of it, only silently,
For it harboured a presence that chilled to the bones.
Its interior was a maze of rust and decay,
With oil and neglect filling the air each day,
Narrow stairs creaked underfoot in the gloom,
Leading to darkness where the pendulum loomed.
At midnight, the silence would shatter and fade,
By a faint chime that seemed distant and played,
Cold air grew colder, and fog would seep in,
Swirling through cracks where the old clock had been.
As the final chime echoed through the night,
A ghostly figure appeared in the dim light,
Dressed in a flowing gown, with fair hair,
Their dark, gloomy eyes stared through the air.
Among these ghouls was the spirit of a young maid,
Who loved the clockmaker, but fate betrayed,
She leapt from the tower, her grief bound tight,
Her soul was forever cursed to haunt the stormy night.
Tales told of her form in the windows seen,
Her longing eyes and sorrowful sheen,
Her voice on the wind, a chilling, soft cry,
The tower’s gears groaned as if to reply.
Brave wanderers ventured in at the witching hour,
Felt an overwhelming despair, a ghostly power,
Saw glimpses of her flicker, a spectral flight,
The chime of the clock brought shivers of fright.
At dawn, she would fade, and the silence would return,
The clock stood still, its message unturned,
A sombre reminder of love and hope lost to time,
Her haunting presence became an echo in rhyme.
The folks did not dare approach but kept their distance,
Avoiding the haunted clock tower with spectral persistence.
Some spirits were bound too deep to ever find peace,
Their sorrow remained, and their echoes never ceased.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
