DANCING DEMONS, Pg. 99
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| Disclaimer: Image does not belong to me. Unsure of artist. |
I spin, eyes wide as they land on a
shadowed figure. Hooded in some kind of dark-colored jacket with equally as
dark gloves covering his hands. Tall. Svelte. Still. The figure, male from the
lack of swell and curve, doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. My breath sounds short
and rattled, even to myself.
“Who – who are you?”
A horrible silence hammers away at
my ears. No shrieking wind, no awful calls from the dreadful forest. Only a much
more harrowing quiet that leaves me terrified. Where’s the monster that always
craves my death and makes me writhe in agony as it rips me apart?
Violent trembles quake through my
small frame, hard enough that when I take a step toward the hooded figure, my
balance is unstable. Undergrowth, fallen branches, and rocks pierce my bare
feet, cutting through the fragile flesh with searing heat. I curse the sharp
pain, the stale night, and the thick mist that covers the forest floor like a
razor-laced woolen blanket. Still, I keep going.
Suddenly, the figure turns, walking
into the forest without the loud crunch of desiccated leaves, snapping twigs,
or blind feet.
“Hey! Hey, wait!” I shout, hurrying
to catch up and reach the mysterious figure. Rocks, undergrowth, and branches
forgotten – all but running, and still I only catch the briefest glimpse of a
silhouette, as the figure walks through the obsidian woods, the silver vapor
closing around him.
It frightens me. I run forward, calling after
him. The whispers and chitter-chatter come alive, sharp and piercing through
the night’s silence. I run harder. My heart pounds and my skin burns hot. Sweat
beads my flesh despite the chill silver swirling around, pressing against me
like small, razor fine diamonds. Threatening, but never breaking the skin.
© Copyright 2014 Katie S. Taylor
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