Short story repost 1

Commentary: Since I'm not very happy with the spoiler nature of the name I originally posted this by, here's a repost of the old story. It's one of the few I can look at twice without wanting to completely rewrite it immediately.



Small provincial towns. The sort that have a pair of traffic lights in the center - and even those turn a blind yellow eye to the happenings on the dark streets after the bells of the local church ring nine. The kind of towns that band crowds of youth together. Not for festivities, though, and not even for any particular purpose at all - merely out of nothing better to do. And because of a strange, inexplicable fear. Fear of the dark. And of the things that dwell in its darkest corners.

It's all too easy to feel the touch of death in such a town in the middle of a July night. All you need is but think of it, and, sure enough, it will be there, running a chilled bony finger down your spine, whispering sweet and terrible words in your ears, chuckling at your fears, closing the circle around you.

It was on one of these nights that I met her. Standing beneath a tilted street lamp, looking lost and beautiful. Her pale face was painted yellow by the dim light and framed sharply by dark glossy hair - hair so long that I was not sure where it ended and the night began. As I walked closer, she lifted her eyes at me - eyes dark as the night around us and deep as the abyss. A small, shy smile greeted me, a smile I felt I could kill for - or die for. The world began to fade away, drowning in the deepening darkness. There was but her now, her standing in a puddle of light under the crooked lamp, the crickets singing us a serenade, and myself, feeling dumb-struck by sudden and instant love and paralyzed by a terrifying power of dread and foreboding. Silently, she made a step towards me and offered me her hand. I took it carefully, holding it as if she was made of glass or paper.

Together we walked through the silent, empty streets of the dead town, wading through the still air of the summer night. We wandered in the dark without saying a word, passing through the empty streets, parks and fields. Dogs barked in the distance, disturbed by something in the air - something alive, magnificent and horrendous, a giant entity hanging like a cloud over the small sleeping town.

I turned to look at my silent companion, meeting once more her calm, slightly sad smile. When I turned back to glance on the path before me, I saw that we were at a bridge. I didn't know what bridge this was - or that it was here at all, but it would not surprise me. We slowly walked to the middle and stopped, leaning against the railing and gazing down at the lazily moving river. She glanced at me and chuckled, a brief, sad laughter - more of an utterance of sorrow than joy, I thought. Then, with one brief, graceful movement she was atop the railing, looking down at me with her strange smile, waiting for something. So we stood for an eternity. Then, she turned away, leaning forward on her tip-toes and swooped down off the bridge like a great bird as I stood watching, and as I stood there, I felt the presence gone.

Every July since that night I wander the empty streets of provincial towns. Seeking her. Sometimes, I feel her whispering to me again, tickling my spine with her long, beautiful fingers. But as I turn around, she is gone, and I wander on alone.