Author’s Note

This poem was written as a meditation on grief, curiosity, and the dangerous desire to hear a familiar voice again. Ouija isn’t about ghosts so much as it is about what happens when longing outweighs caution—when we reach into the dark hoping for comfort, and something else answers instead.

Ouija
Poetry by B.D. Nightshade

In the hush of midnight’s mournful plea,
I sought a voice lost to eternity.
The planchette whispered, soft and sly,
A bridge to the beyond, where spirits lie.

“Speak to me,” I begged the unseen,
“My grief is heavy, my heart unclean.
I seek the warmth of a loved one’s face,
To pierce the silence, to find their grace.”

The board sighed—its letters danced,
A presence stirred, a spectral chance.
But the air grew cold, a shadow fell,
A creeping dread, a whispered spell.

“Not who you seek,” it scratched, obscene—
A voice too dark, too serpentine.
The candles flickered, their flames bent low,
And in that moment, I should have let go.

But curiosity, a fatal sin,
Pulled me deeper, drew me in.
The board laughed—a hollow tone:
“You’ve opened the door. You’re never alone.”

Footsteps echoed where none should tread,
A phantom touch brushed ’cross my bed.
Mirrors cracked; their shards betrayed
A face unknown, in shadows swayed.

I prayed for peace, I screamed for aid,
But the veil was torn, the debt unpaid.
The unseen force—relentless, vile—
Lurks in corners, mocks my denial.

I see it now in every dream:
A ghastly grin. An endless scream.
The Ouija’s curse, my foolish pact—
A gateway opened. I can’t retract.

So heed my tale. Beware the night.
Some voices whisper with claws of spite.
When you seek the dead, tread light—beware:
Not all spirits are kind or fair.

If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]