Today on Drabble Wednesday, the darkness closes in and the wind sweeps down desolate paths...
Midnight whispers names down the deserted lanes, and softly knocks at the barred doors and shuttered windows. It conspires with the night wind and the moon to shiver along cracks and the sheen of surfaces, to squirm its way past barriers.
While those of flesh and bone huddle in fear behind thin walls and glass.
They mutter useless prayers into the darkness, a vain attempt to ward the poor wretched souls on Midnight’s tongue. They know by morning dawn, Midnight will claim those it names.
For bargains made in the witching hour must be honoured and tribute must be paid.
Echo on the Cobblestones
Black velvet sky, a celestial awning of space and stars, yawns above the quiet streets of a small, sleepy town. An ordinary town, nine to five, good citizens abed in these darkened hours. Yet, there are no stragglers, no ill-intent prowlers, no night owls haunting the alleys or roadways. All is still as a dead man’s breath, and cold as a frozen tomb.
Save for an echoing sound most peculiar.
Every evening it can be heard, a curious tap, tap, tapping. Like the beat of footsteps on long forgotten cobblestones, of someone strolling down an avenue lost to the ages...
The Road Taken
There’s a winding road I know, very near, but far away. The old folk tell you don’t travel down Tarkington Road, bad things happen in the wisps of fog and the twilight rain. That you won’t come home again if you meet the Man in Black.
It’s a bit ramshackle, this thoroughfare. Once a mining road, or maybe a logging trail; no one’s sure anymore. The air feels heavy, the light plays tricks on your eyes. Things shift in the mist, and noises—not quite screams—echo from down the way.
And of course, there’s me.
The Man in Black.
© A. F. Stewart 2016 All Rights Reserved