Horror Poem of Rituals, Hexes, and Hauntings

Caption: Witches gathered in ritual fire before a haunted house — a vision of Gothic Horror captured in Dark Poetry, echoing the incantatory force of a Horror Poem.

This is no ordinary verse, but a Horror Poem — a ritual stitched from ash, bone, and shadow. Read it as incantation, not pastime: each line a binding, each stanza a curse. You will walk from Invocation into the Gathering, step into a Haunted House that breathes, and witness a Ritual of Fire that marks the flesh. The Hexed Dreamscape follows, where sleep unravels into omen, then the Final Binding, where the voice no longer belongs to the speaker. The Circle Closed is the seal. Step carefully, reader. The poem does not wait; it swallows you whole.

Canto I: Invocation of the Hex

The night splits open like a wound, and I step through the seam, barefoot on soil that remembers every burial. The air is thick with iron, as if the sky itself has been bled.

I do not pray. Prayers are for the trembling. I speak in the tongue of smoke and marrow, a language older than mercy, where each syllable is a nail, and each breath drives it deeper.

The house on the hill exhales dust, its windows blind, its doors ajar, a mouth that has swallowed pilgrims whole. Inside, the witch waits — her shadow stitched to the rafters, her hands dripping with wax and salt, her eyes two lanterns filled with drowned stars.

I call her name, though it is not a name, but a fracture, a sound that bruises the air. The trees bend to listen. The soil shifts beneath me, roots writhing like veins of the dead.

This is no beginning. This is a binding. Every line I carve into the silence is a tether, a chain, a curse. And you, reader — you are already inside the circle.

Canto II: The Witch’s Gathering

They arrive without footsteps, their shadows spilling first, longer than bodies, older than names.

The air thickens with their breath, a musk of damp earth and burnt sage, and the trees lean inward, as if the forest itself were listening.

One carries a lantern of bone, its flame a tongue of black fire. Another drags a sack of feathers and teeth, the remnants of birds that never sang. The eldest wears silence like a crown, her eyes blindfolded with spider silk, yet she sees more than the living ever will.

They circle the house, their voices weaving into a single thread, a chant that unravels the seams of the night. The windows rattle, the door sighs, and the house itself begins to breathe.

They do not speak to me, yet I feel their words in my marrow, a litany of hunger, a promise of ruin. Every syllable is a nail in the coffin of dawn.

The ground trembles beneath their rhythm, roots writhing like serpents, stones splitting open to reveal the teeth of the earth.

This is no gathering of women. This is a parliament of shadows, a congress of curses, a choir of the damned.

And I, unwilling witness, am already marked. The circle has closed, and the night has chosen its prey.

Summon Your Own Witch’s Altar

Craft your circle with this 54‑piece Witchcraft Supplies Altar Kit — crystals, herbs, and ritual tools to bring the essence of Dark Poetry and Gothic Horror into your space.

$26.99 - Amazon

Canto III: The Haunted House

The house does not wait to be entered. It leans forward, its beams groaning like ribs, its shutters clattering like teeth. The door yawns wide, a throat slick with shadows, and the night exhales through its halls.

The walls are not walls. They breathe. They pulse with the memory of prayers scratched into plaster by trembling hands. Every nail is a relic, every floorboard a coffin lid. The staircase curls upward like a spine, vertebrae cracked, yet still carrying the weight of centuries.

I step inside, and the air thickens with mildew and whispers. The scent of rot is not decay, but preservation — as though the house has embalmed its own silence. Portraits hang crooked, their eyes gouged by time, yet I feel their gaze, a pressure against the back of my skull.

The witches do not follow. They do not need to. Their chant lingers in the rafters, woven into the dust, a spell that keeps the house awake. The floor shifts beneath me, boards sighing like tired lungs, and I know I am not walking on wood, but on the backs of the forgotten.

A window shatters without sound. Glass falls like frozen rain, yet never touches the ground. The shards hang in the air, glittering like teeth in a predator’s grin.

This is no dwelling. This is a reliquary of fear, a cathedral of ruin, a body that has learned to hunger. And I, foolish pilgrim, am swallowed whole.

Canto IV: The Ritual of Fire

The circle tightens. Ash drifts like snow, settling on the shoulders of the witches, on the beams of the house that groan like old bones.

They strike no match. The fire is born from breath, from the grinding of teeth, from the syllables of a curse too ancient to name. It blossoms in the air, a black flame that devours light, a hunger that eats even shadow.

The walls glow with veins of ember, the portraits blister, their painted mouths opening in silent screams. The staircase writhes, its spine cracking, vertebrae snapping into sparks.

The witches raise their hands, palms cut and bleeding, and the fire licks their wounds like a lover. They do not flinch. They are feeding it. They are binding it. They are becoming it.

The house itself begins to burn, yet nothing is consumed. The wood does not char, the beams do not collapse. Instead, the fire coils inward, a serpent swallowing its own tail, a ritual that feeds on itself, endless, eternal.

I feel it crawl across my skin, a heat that is not heat, but memory — as if every flame that ever burned has gathered here tonight.

The witches chant, their voices braided into one, and the fire answers, a roar that is not sound, but command.

This is no cleansing. This is no warmth. This is the fire that remembers, the fire that judges, the fire that marks.

And I, caught in its glow, am branded.

Infernal Vision: Wear the Demon’s Gaze

Summon the gaze of the Infernal Vision — a hypnotic demon djinn engulfed in flames, born of Gothic Horror and Dark Poetry.

$19.50

Canto V: The Hexed Dreamscape

Sleep does not come. It is taken. Dragged from me like a skin, peeled back until only the raw nerve of thought remains.

The fire’s brand glows beneath my flesh, a coal lodged in the marrow, and with every pulse of blood the world around me fractures.

The walls dissolve into smoke. The ceiling bends into a sky of ash. The floor becomes a river of black glass, its surface rippling with faces I almost know. They open their mouths, but no sound escapes — only moths, their wings dusted with scripture.

The witches are here, though not as bodies. They are silhouettes stitched into the air, their forms unraveling, their voices a swarm of locusts that gnaw at the edges of my mind.

I stumble through corridors that are not corridors, rooms that fold into themselves like paper, staircases that climb into nothing. Every door I open leads back to the same chamber: a mirror, cracked and bleeding light.

I look, and the reflection is not mine. It is a figure bound in wax, its mouth sewn shut with wire, its eyes two coins pressed into sockets. It raises its hand, and I feel my own hand rise. It speaks without sound, and I hear the words in my bones:

You are the vessel. You are the offering. You are the dream that cannot wake.

The fire roars again, though there is no flame. Only the memory of burning, the echo of ash. And I, caught in its glow, am carried deeper into the dream, where even fear forgets its name.

Canto VI: The Final Binding

The dream collapses inward, folding like wet parchment, and I wake — though waking feels no different than drowning.

The witches stand in a ring of ash, their mouths moving, their voices braided into one rope of sound that tightens around my throat. The house groans with them, its beams bending like ribs, its windows weeping soot.

They raise their hands, palms carved with sigils, blood dripping into the fire that does not burn. The flames coil upward, a serpent of smoke and ember, and wrap themselves around me.

I try to speak, but my tongue is stone. I try to move, but my bones are bound with invisible twine. Every breath I take is not mine, but theirs.

The chant grows heavier, a weight pressing down on the marrow, and I feel the mark inside me flare — the brand of fire, the echo of the dream. It spreads through my veins, a black river, a chain of molten iron.

The witches lean closer, their faces blurred, their eyes hollow lanterns. They whisper not to me, but through me, their words spilling out of my mouth like smoke from a broken chimney.

I am no longer witness. I am vessel. I am altar. I am the page they write upon, the knife they wield, the silence they command.

The circle closes. The fire seals. The binding is complete.

And in that moment, I understand: this was never their ritual. It was mine. It was always mine.

Canto VII: The Circle Closed

The night exhales, and the fire gutters into silence. Ash drifts like snow across the threshold, settling into the cracks of the earth, into the lines of my palms.

The witches are gone, yet their absence is heavier than their presence. The house stands still, its windows blind, its door a mouth that has swallowed its last word.

I step forward, but the ground does not change. Every path leads back to the circle, every shadow bends toward the same center. The world itself has folded, a serpent eating its own tail, a ritual without end.

I hear my own voice, though I do not speak. It chants the words I once feared, the words that bound me, the words that now belong to me.

The mark burns faintly beneath my skin, not pain, but permanence. A reminder that the ritual is not over, that it never ends, that it waits in every silence, in every dream, in every house that groans when the wind passes.

The circle is closed. The hex is sealed. The poem has devoured itself.

And you, reader — you carry it now. It lingers in your breath, in the marrow of your bones, in the silence between your heartbeats.

This is no ending. This is the return. This is the curse that waits to be spoken again.

❓ Frequently Asked Questions

Q: What makes a Horror Poem unique? A Horror Poem uses language like a ritual — each line meant to unsettle, each stanza a binding. It blends fear with lyricism, turning verse into a spell.

Q: How does Dark Poetry differ from traditional verse? Dark Poetry leans into shadowed imagery — grief, death, ritual, and the uncanny. It doesn’t just describe darkness; it inhabits it, creating atmosphere that lingers.

Q: Why is Gothic Horror such a strong influence on horror poems? Gothic Horror provides the architecture: haunted houses, ancestral curses, and the weight of history. These elements give horror poems their mythic, timeless resonance.

Q: Can a poem be both beautiful and terrifying? Yes. The best Dark Poetry and Gothic Horror verse balance lyrical craft with dread, using rhythm and metaphor to make fear feel inevitable and strangely alluring.

Q: Who reads horror poems today? Readers drawn to Gothic Horror, Dark Poetry, and occult themes. They seek language that feels like a spell — not just entertainment, but an experience that marks them.

Stay in tune with us

Join the Coven: a small, ritual-minded newsletter that arrives like a folded note—short, strange, and useful. Subscribe and get an immediate 10% off code for your first purchase, plus access to early drops, behind-the-scenes ritual notes, and curated occult finds.

About the Author:

Marcel Helmar is a cinematic occult artist, writer, and founder of Horror & Hexes. His work blends ritual symbolism, folk horror, and studio‑grade printmaking to produce limited art drops, immersive essays, and practical ritual guides.

Marcel’s writing and visual practice have been used by filmmakers, podcasters, and indie publishers to create atmosphere and authenticity; he teaches workshops on image making, lore research, and publishing for dark‑culture creators. Visitors can browse his gallery, read deep‑dive essays, or join the mailing list for exclusive drops and process notes.