Darkness I am awed by what my weary

Darkness I am awed by what my weary

Darkness has fallen across the land. The harvest moon struggles to show itself through thick, dark, shadowy clouds. A lazy breeze brings waves of goosebumps to the surface of my exposed flesh. Each time I hear the whisperings of the wind through the decaying tops of the trees, an involuntary shudder courses through my tensed, overstressed body. I can hear the screams and cries of the frightened, their discordance swelling and ebbing like the tide. I walk on, shoulders bent forward, eyes darting to and fro, searching for my home in this darkness.

As I forge through the wind-blown piles of fallen leaves, I cannot help but wonder what horror lurks beyond my limited field of vision. I sense, yet cannot see, that my destination lies directly in front of me. I am dimly aware of the passing faces of Death, yet I know that I am the only one of my kind on this macabre journey homeward. Ahead, there is a light, a painfully brilliant light bathing the street in its warm glow. My pace, and pulse, quickens at the sight. A few more yards and I shall be home. As I approach the front gate, I stop.

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Though I am thankful to be home, I am awed by what my weary eyes take in. I quickly look left then right, trying to see everything at once. To my left, I see the gravestones, beautifully crafted and lovingly placed. To my right, several more stones and a sight that almost defies description- a freshly dug grave.

The grave itself is un- remarkable. It is the contents of the grave that deserve attention. Mostly free from his earthly home is the body that my wife and I had placed there just this afternoon. With his hands, head, and leg above the surface of the dirt, I think to myself, ‘Should I have buried him deeper?’ As I ponder over this light bit of trivia, I proceed up the path that leads to the porch.

I look around as I climb the cement stairs onto the porch. “Everything is perfect,” I say aloud to no one in particular. The coffin to my right is partially opened, and as I walk past it I catch a glimpse of a skeletal hand cuffed by the sleeve of a beautiful wedding gown. Continuing, I see on my left the glass test tubes and beakers filled with blood. A human skull sits upon the bench with the glassware, staring vacantly off into space. Just ahead on my right, the porch door opens, leading out to the driveway.

While making my way to the door, I am forced to clear a path through thick tangles of spiders web. I can’t believe I allowed the web to be strung up like this. I am deathly afraid of spiders.

What was I thinking? Stepping outside again I notice the strobe-like light and thick, curling fog. A car rests up against my apple tree. I walk to the front of the car and suddenly wish I hadn’t.

The top of the drivers head is sticking out of the windshield and a foot and an arm protrude from beneath the front bumper. The amount of blood is generous, but that’s not why I’ve longed to be home. I step over the crimson puddles and go back to the porch.

Once inside, I make my way past randomly scattered bones and sheets of gossamer to get to the front door of my house. Turning the doorknob, I can faintly hear Bachs “Toccata & Fugue in D minor”. Upon entering, the smells of cinnamon, apples and hot coffee flood over me. I pour myself a tall mug of that aromatic Colombian blend, the chill in my bones almost gone by the fourth gulp, and turn to see my wife standing in the doorway.

“Happy Halloween”, she says. Bibliography:

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