The House of Westenra Poem, by Tristan Robert Lange, at My poetic side

Within the dim, uncharted regions—over there—

Way beyond where the frontal lobe realm was—

The horror of the dark psychic undoubtedly

Left the victim feeling more than something

Awful. Yes!—the terror of that vampire, now long

And far from taking away its fixed and

Insatiable gaze of the purest pitch black

Evil from the victim’s mind there bending

And melding into the black vortex walls over-

Stimulated by the blank gaze and the

Charming, craven grin. The villain, half-reclining

Right there in a chair ever tinged with white

Lies that lead the innocent to the foul figure.

Once in the snare, unaware that there I

Stumbled up on my friend in a way I then could

See what was going on; yet, it was not

Making any sort of sense I could reach or see

In my horror-stricken mind. There was the

Solitary, soulless stare in the frightened face

Of my friend, the victim. So sickly but—

Still aware that they’re in the stalker’s clutches, I,

Trying to muster all the voice I could,

Let out a hoarse whimper and could no longer see!

How?! I do not at all know, but there the

Psychic vampire beast began to show their mind’s gleam.

Though I could not see, the blue gleam was of

Such an ethereal quality, it was a

Beam that penetrated through my sick pair

Of scaled eyes. The truth is, there was no one of

Such charm, in a world that’s been stuck with red

Roses that wilt willfully in pred’tory eyes.

It was there that I saw this beast’s plan—the

Predator trying to pretend its deceit’s white,

And not blackened like an evil, shadowed figure—

The fiend’s master stroke was in how it moved

Into the mental realm of the victim, forwards

In a mesmeric pattern that, again,

Held indomitable sway and, truthfully it

Stayed there, locked. This monster’s piercing gaze was

Literally draining life out of my friend—now

So far gone that the end was close.

Yet, that end—in all its horror—was not enough

To strip my friend of their life. No! Not for

My friend! Death toyed with its victim like it mocks us—

Pretending to be a vehicle to

Greater things, but leaving us with no chance to see

The abyss it places us all in. Clearly,

The effect the psychic vampire had was strong, and

They were not going to let go of the

Thoughts of my friend. It was there, in the dim moonlight.

That I did all I could to scream out—still

Nothing forceful came out of my mouth—fear still held.

Yet, it was then that I did scream out my

Protest—a plea that came from the depths of my own

Vocal cords, now working like my strained heart.

From deep within my lacerated throat, I grew

Louder even as the chamber grew cold

And left trails of frost wisping out from our mouths as

The psychic vampire reeled and stared with ice—

Their shock palpable as they looked toward me there and

Reached in to silence me. Not to be, I

Shouted yet again to be loudly heard and could

See that the sound was something they could hear.

It then occurred to me that it was there that the

Way to end a vampire—without a gasp—

Presented itself to me in a series of

Brilliant crisp thoughts, like “Holmes” came to Arthur

In his haunted, Poe-esque mystery tales. There!—as

I realized! That it is for certain we

Need to act so quickly when we have recognized

The gaze of the psychic vampire, ‘cause the

Horrifying effect it has that then features

In the very broken and crushed hopes of

Their victims. Victims like my dearest, sweet Lucy,

Who fell cold like the house of Westenra.

Poet’s Note:

Written on October 2, 2024, this poem fuses the Golden Shovel technique with alternating Alexandrine (12-syllable) and Pentameter (10-syllable) lines. Instead of using a poem line, I employed prose from Bram Stoker's "Dracula": two lines from Chapter 8 and one line from Chapter 16, broken into five stanzas.

The first two lines depict Dracula victimizing Lucy Westenra, as witnessed by Mina. The final line, split across the remaining three stanzas, describes the undead Lucy as predator. This structure encapsulates the horrific cycle of predation central to my narrative.

My narrator, a nameless Mina archetype, witnesses the attack. Unlike Stoker's Mina, paralyzed by fear, my narrator acts, breaking the silence often accompanying predatory abuse.

This work blurs boundaries between poetry and prose, Victorian and modern sensibilities, blending "Dracula" with an original narrative to explore themes of victimization, predation, and the power of voice in the face of horror.

This poem predates my published piece “Autopsy of a Lie,” included in the anthology The Lies We Tell Others, employing the same Golden Shovel technique but, for that poem, I decided to stick with strict pentameter lines.

Author: Tristan Robert Lange ( Offline)
Published: October 30th, 2025 06:54
Comment from author about the poem: I’m now published in an anthology featuring authors from across the Poconos, PA. All proceeds benefit the Pocono Liars Club — a collective of authors and editors dedicated to supporting and mentoring local writers. Available in paperback and Kindle, please consider purchasing one and supporting a great cause. https://a.co/d/6DboFuE
Category: Gothic
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