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If you've ever been fascinated by the moon and how it's at its fullest, rising to the peak of the charcoal coloured sky, harbouring in the vigorously buoyant night, reflecting all light irradiated upon it as it casts the surrounding world in shadows - only then will the night unveil her true self to you and to every other deplorable, credulous individual who is tantalisingly transfixed by such cruxes as the moon and her enchanting glow, not even contemplating the moon's unsettlingly altered glow that evening. What was she hiding?
If you've ever felt restively unhinged as you checked the door for the second time that night, not even feeling at ease in the slightest amidst hearing the lock click twice; once when you first locked it and twice at this very moment just as you guide your key into the lock and turn it, securing it shut - only then you will have realised something felt different about tonight. From the moment you locked the door the first time to progressing down the stairs, counting as you did so-
One.
Two.
Thr-
What was that?
Must've been the wind.
You stop mid-step to crane your neck around, irking your eyes to distinguish something, anything from the darkness that engulfed you. The candle you held onto flickered, as if it was debating whether or not it should illuminate your path any further before continuing its warm, steady burn. You made your way further down, distraught with what occurred, forgetting to count the remaining stairs.
If you've ever felt restively unhinged as you thought you checked the door for the second time that night, not even feeling at ease in the slightest amidst you having heard the lock click twice; when you first locked it and at that very moment as you guided your key into the lock and turned it, securing it shut - only then will you have gone to bed, tucked in your sheets in the safety of wicker candles and the light of the moon. Only the moon was different tonight.
If you've ever felt as if you were being watched as you drifted to a gentle trance, lady sleep having her way as she lulls you into the softest of dormancies so sweetly - only then will the luridly beclouded figure that slipped past you at the door whilst your back was turned as you shed yourself of your saturated coat, hanging it on the stand, willing for it to dry after setting your umbrella in the brass cylinder - only then will that ominously adumbrate figure linger within and in between the caliginous fissures and crevices, becoming one with his surroundings as if there was nothing but an obscure, ebony abyss wrapped around him like a blanket, constricting him, advance towards the stairs, not making a sound - only then will he appear at the foot of your bed and stare at your sleeping form, desperate to get closer. But he doesn't.
He turns back towards the now opened door as silent as the cries of a dead child's ghost, still and unmoving.
He makes his way down the stairs, counting as he did so.
One.
Two.
Three.
END
