I am coming for you, riding on this black stallion, in this moonlit night, and I am wandering at the hill, just a few gallops shy from your resort. Do you remember that cursed night, when I beheld you on the furthest of the churchyards, on the bleakest of nights when the wolves howled and the screaming ghosts hastened out of their abandoned graves? I have been craving for you since then. This craving – the craving to kill you – is consuming my soul just like a black hole consumes the fiery stars in the remotest corners of the cosmos. How iniquitous is it to kill an old stooping man, too weak to even stand for a while? But see, I am wistfully restive, for obliterating your existence is my fervid desire.
See, now I’m exactly there, nothing could stop me from reaching the cemetery, not even the howling wolves, neither the screaming bats and nor the black silence of this nightly breeze. Ha! Ha! Ha! And how could you expect your gods to change the course of your destined path, or your spells to deviate my will? I am too determined and desperate to kill you. I’ve been dreaming wistfully for so long to impale your emaciated throat with a rust-ragged spear and spill every cold drop of blood from your disease-ridden body. No, no, it is not that you vex me but it is the nefarious task you carry out. You’ve dug for many here. Tonight, pardon my indulgence, I’ll bury you!
You, yes, you. I am talking to you, you filthy old gravedigger. I, your killer, will get off the horse, stand aloft at the iron gate of the graveyard, and peer through the rusted and spiked gratings. You see, nothing has changed since I last visited here; everything is alike – the distorted graves, the hunched and illegible tombstones, the stinking undergrowth and stench of the rotten corpses, the rattling spiders and scorpions, the profusely growing toadstools, an old oak tree in the middle, and your forlorn shed where you live with your cursed grave-digging-tools. Behold the death approaching you! Hearken to the footsteps of your impending doom. You might be coughing inside your shed, unaware of me, no? How sly I am, how shrewd my intuitions are and how unerring is my prophecy! No, you’re not coughing. The deafening silence emanates from it. Why? Where are you? Are you asleep? Or you’re perhaps dreaming about tomorrow’s entombments and funerals or your immortality or perhaps the hopeful serenity of your life ahead. But trust me, I’ll shatter every dream you cherish when I’ll kick the door of your dilapidated shelter, and awake you and drag you to the middle of the cemetery and tie you to the oak tree and pierce my spear through your gaunt neck.
To help us strengthen the tradition of quality reading and writing, we need allies like YOU. Subscribe to us.