To rationalize fear is not folly, but dismissing the feelings – both emotionally and physiologically – in a fleeting moment of sheer terror would be the ultimate error, an unsurpassed oversight worthy of the consequence and cause, of such a trembling fear hence.
Nights when the golden huntress moon bathes the cold midnight sky in a glowing veil brings us tranquility and peace it would seem. It is within this peace our minds play their piece – a song of worry, doubt and anxiety the likes of which only such nights bring.
It is on such a night that my mind’s song performed as in a symphony, beginning with the slow gradual swell of the crescendo.
Having completed my tasks for the evening I set for home on a night bathed in the fog of the penumbra. The moon concealed behind the clouds I was devoid of a guiding light save the fading lanterns frozen upon their steel perches. The only thing breaking the interminable silence being the sound of my shoes as I headed down the cobbled street. Half a mile or so lay before me down this street ere I was liberated from the embrace of the cold night; thus I would arrive home.
Betwixt the silence and the darkness I could not establish a more ominous sign. The street I walk tends to be full of life and light especially on such a night. Men holding discussion out on their doorsteps, children still playing under the watchful eye of their parents. On the outset I expected as much, though to my bewilderment my expectation left … hanging as if on a bough of the pines now hiding that huntress moon.
To put pen to paper of the following events brings to me a feeling of unquenchable dread. Slicing the silence during my walk was a voice, a voice rusty with world-weary pain and agony. A voice lacking distinct familiarity, a voice which chilled me to my core. The crescendo had reached its peak – the brass deafening and the timpani thundering.
“Truth is in vision, to see is to believe”
Emerging from the darkness while my heart sat in my throat came the source of my dread. Trembling, my eyes lingered on the man’s face – the face of a man whose torment and affliction were written on his pale face. A pale face without eyes.
Trickles of glistening sanguine blood ran from the empty sockets, pooling in his bared teeth. Feeling only the throbbing of every vein in my otherwise numb limbs I started backwards. The scarred gangrenous hands raised and tightened around my neck.