Our story begins, as most are often prone to do, in an obscure region, with the most unlikely of people. It was, of course, a long time ago, as so many of our stories often are. This particular telling, however, reaches back farther than even the wisest of the elders can remember, back when the mountains were still young, and the wind had only just begun to wade through the newly grown pines. This was shortly after the dawn of man, and throughout the world, there was but seven villages needed to house them, for man was small in number. But while the mountains and trees were young, man himself was but an infant, ignorant in his ways. He knew little of the fantastic ways of the flowing earth, even as it spread itself before him.

It was during this time that our story takes place, In the time of the Shifting Earth, among the seven villages of man. These villages, as is well known by most, were arranged according to the various creations they were built upon, from the angry and wild passions of the village of Fire, from which war was first raised, to the calm and strange village of Sea, from which curiosity was first sparked. These villages were separated greatly, isolated by the reaching mountain ranges, and the climbing rivers. Each village knew little of the ways of the others that lie beyond their walls. And it was because of this, along with the nature of man, as is too often the case, that the people of the various villages sometimes doubted that any other of their kind, aside from themselves, actually existed. This was especially true of the fourth village, which grew among the rocks and peaks of the Old Mountains. It was this doubt that plagued them like no other, as they were solid and unmoving, much as the Old Mountains themselves. They were an ignorant people, who assumed that all they could not feel, or lay eyes on, was myth. And in this ignorance lie their greatest weakness, and, ultimately, their greatest pain. For, despite their warnings, it was only through this pain that they would realize the truth.

The wind swept through the overhanging branches of the tall pines, whispering the unspoken dreams of a cloudless night. A sea of stars hung in the sky above, glistening like so many shimmering jewels, as they filled the night sky with their purest light. The moon, as always, was full and bright, for this was a time before she had reason to hide her brilliant face. Silver moonlight cascaded down from the heavens into the valley below, pooling at the base of the valley walls, casting darkened shadows through the canopy of trees that shaded the woods below. And yet the peaceful beauty of the night was left unadmired by the eyes of man, save a young boy that sat on the soft forest floor, leaning against the trunk of a resting willow.

He had no name to speak of, for the people in the valley were of numbers so small, they had no need of names to distinguish them. He came here, as he so often did, for the moments of joy the silence and peacefulness of the woods were able to provide. And so he sat, as he did most nights, gazing up through a slight opening in the trees, at the skies above. He watched as the stars so lazily dipped below the horizon that the valley walls provided, forever chasing the sun. His thoughts drifted like a leaf in wind, constantly swaying from one point to the next, before being blown to someplace ever more distant. During these times, he usually found his thoughts, inevitably, wandering the mountains that loomed above. The elders from the village had all warned him of the dangers that lie beyond, as it was surely the end of the world, and if one were to reach the top, they would fall into the eternal nothingness that lie beyond. They had warned all the people in the valley, and forbid any from even leaning against the mountain walls, for if they did, then the walls might collapse, and the village would fall into the nothingness.

And yet, the young boy could not help but wonder what lay beyond the walls. What did the nothingness look like? Perhaps, if he could just peek over, and glimpse past the walls, then he could satisfy his curiosity. And yet, he knew, if he did so, then he would be dragged into the nothing, and perhaps the village along with him. And so, every night, he would sit, leaning against the same willow, safely inside the valley, wondering about the world outside. This night, however, was different in some way, though he could not imagine why. He had done this every night, for as long as he could remember, so he could not see why anything would be amiss. And yet, even so, he could definitely feel that something was different. It was as if the night were anxious, waiting for something to happen, though what he knew not. It was then that he heard a voice.

It came pealing off the mountain walls around him, racing down the steep slopes, and into the valley floor below. The voice was startlingly loud, and seemed to be shouting as loud as possible, and yet, it was strangely quiet. It not only seemed to fall from above, but also to rise from the earth below. Yes, indeed, it seemed to come from everywhere, and yet nowhere at all, all at once. He could tell the voice was speaking, and speaking in his language, yet it was in a frantic, almost manic manner, with only a few disjointed words disconcernable. He heard what seemed like “...Past walls.”, “...Falling”, and, after a short burst of incoherent shouting, “...Hurry!”, Most of the words ran together, to fast for him to be able to determine, but he heard what seemed to him the most important. And in an instant, the voice was gone, as quickly as it had came. The boy wasted no time returning back to the village, crying out for help as he ran.

He tore past limbs and underbrush, racing through the valley. He reached the village just as all the torches within were lit, and the confused shouting of the villagers filled the air. When the boy arrived, he was met by the oldest elder, shortly followed by the other two which he led. Upon seeing them, the boy cried out, telling them of the voice as fast as he could force out his words. He was silenced by a single upward hand from the leading elder. A short moment of silence passed, the crackling of torch fires the only sound in the night. At last the leader spoke, “Tell us what happened, boy”, lowering his hand. After he took a moment to collect his thoughts, the boy answered.

He told the leaders, and the frightened villagers that crowded behind him, about the voice he had heard in the wood, and how it seemed to come from every direction at once. After the boy had finished speaking, the elder again raised his hand for silence which soon followed. He began to stroke his long, grey beard in thought, as a look of intense concentration played across his face. He then turned and consulted the other elders, whispering in a calm and thoughtful air. When, at last, he seemed satisfied, once more, he turned to the boy, and spoke. “We hear no such voice. If what you have spoken has been in truth, then surely you were misled.” he then turned to the villagers before proceeding. “You must all sleep, there is no voice in the wood, nor anywhere else. This boy has spoke in err”, and, with a final dismissive wave of the hand the villagers returned to their homes, talking amongst themselves.

The following night, the boy went back to the same spot in the woods, confident that he had been merely dreaming. After all, it was dark, was it not probable he had simply fallen asleep? And yet, when he arrived, the same booming voice returned, with the same message, still too fast to understand its full meaning. And again, the young boy returned, and again, was dismissed, if not more hastily. This same pattern occurred the next night as well, and the next, continuing night after night. The boy heard the voice, ran back to his village, sure they must have heard it along with him, and found that the village had heard nothing, and still did not believe him. And every night, the villagers grew increasingly angry. They refused his offers to visit the spot with him, and did not believe him when he told of the voice. He was forbidden from leaving the village, but could not resist the call to once more listen to the voice. Something was dreadfully wrong, and he could not simply ignore it, as the villagers had. And so this continued, every night, despite all warnings and anger from the villagers and the elders, for eleven days, and eleven nights. On the twelfth night, a meeting was held in the village, and it was decided that the boy must leave the valley.

On the next day, the boy was served a handsome meal, and led to a cave on the far side of the valley. It was said that the cave led away from the valley, and into the world beyond. Hot tears streamed down the boy’s face as he was brought to the mouth of the cave. Many of the villagers hung their heads in sympathy, but there was nothing to be done. The elders had passed judgement on the boy, and they alone knew of the ways of the world. And so, with a slight nod by the elders, the boy was led into the cave by two men, who, after a moment of grim and anxious silence, came back alone.

The cave was dark, and the boy was forced to feel his way through. He continued like this for what seemed to be hours, sometimes walking, sometimes crawling. The cave seemed to stretch on for miles, uneven and ridged, and always dark. He was unsure of how long he had walked like this, but eventually his fear began to be replaced with curiosity. What was behind the walls? What did the nothingness look like? For as long as he could remember, he had asked these questions, and despite the circumstance, he was somewhat relieved, for he was finally to receive answers. When he finally neared the end, a wave of bright light flooded the opening of the cave. Blinded, he stepped forward, into a sea of lights.

The nothing was not like he had imagined it to be. What he had been told of a dark blackness was nothing like what he had found. A vast field of yellow grain stretched out before him, as far as he could see, lit by a sun not hidden by the mountains of the valley. Rolling hills curved gently downwards ahead of him, dotted with crystal lakes and streams. Animals he had never before seen bounded across the hills, eating from the seeds of grain. The boy called out with joy, gazing across the foreign but wonderful landscape. He began to call, as before, to the people of his village, still behind the great wall of mountains. Yet, when he turned, he saw the mountains rumble and crack, falling in on themselves. His excited yell died on his lips, replaced by a frantic cry of warning. He screamed out as loud as he could, his words running together as he tried desperately to tear them from his throat, “Go to the cave, past the walls! The mountains are falling! You have to run! Hurry!”, he screamed with as much power as his small form possessed, his voice frantically scaling the mountain walls.

But before it could it could be heard, the voice was broken by the numerous peaks of the mountains, and scattered throughout the valley, seeming to come from everywhere and yet nowhere at once. But this is not what the villagers heard, for when it reached them, they heard only the words, “...Past walls”, “...Falling”, and, finally, “...Hurry!”. And as the mountains broke away, the voice of the boy was scattered in every direction, as if a thousand voices shouted the words at once.

The village was, indeed, destroyed, with only the story of the last of its people remaining. The boy was able to survive, and even earn a name in the world he found beyond the walls, and lived for many years. And even as the valley was destroyed, the voice of the child that tried to save it still rings clear to this day, you only have to call out to the mountains, and you will hear his voice as he calls back, shouting the echo will never again fall silent.

In the shadow of a blue mountain, beneath the rain laden fog, there lays a small wood, baptized by the Autumn Sun. Close within, near to its heart, there sits a log. There is nothing overly fantastic about it, in and of itself, In the way of comfort or appearances, save the little rest it provides to the lonesome wanderer that happens upon it. It rests in between a clearing cut for power lines, which feed the nearby cities, and a paved highway that seems always to play host to some busy stranger, caught in the relentless wheel of life. And at its front sits a school of darkened stone and weathered clay, pulled from the Earth by man In his endless search for comfort. It is small, and by most accounts unassuming. It is not as wild as the great rain forests to the south, or as tame as the pristine as the precisely manicured parks and lawns one so often finds in cities. It is noticed by few, and revered by none, aside from the few birds that grace the air above, and the small insects that crawl upon the Earth below. There are countless more of such that dot the lands of every continent, and every nation, save perhaps the most deprived, or wild in spirit. And yet, still, here there is a peace. A calmness that comes as an unforeseen surprise to those that find it, and an unexpected reserve to those that seek It.

The babbling and murmuring of the brook, which a great many misread as sadness, represents nothing save, perhaps, the blissful contentment of the viewer. The callings of birds drift down from above, a rhapsody of the Earth, that echoes the shifting emotions of the listener. Sunlight streams down the waking Autumn leaves, and washes over the smooth river rocks, pouring its golden hue into the brook which sits below. And in the center of this brilliant oasis, there sits the log, simple and unassuming, beckoning the traveler to rest.

And yet, every so often, the harmony of the wood is interrupted by the burdened squealing of a car, as it drives by, or the echoes of student’s voices, as they carry out over the trees. And with these sounds come all of the burdens of reality. Then, often times, a cloud, as if interrupted as well, will shift and overshadow the sun, and the silent pool of sunlight will vanish. This lasts for a short time, and then it will reappear of it’s own accord. Shortly after, however, once the car has passed, carrying its troubles still farther away, and once the cloud drifts away, and the sunlight once again falls on the brook, one can forget that such interruptions ever existed. And yet they remain, as much a part of the human world as the log itself, beckoning in quite another manner, but beckoning nonetheless. And it is between these two worlds in which we find ourselves, the world that placed the log upon the bank of a brook, and bathed it in a golden hue, and the world that paved the road, and pieced together the stones that form the school. And this reality, which few ponder, but all realize, is found, almost perfectly in this wood, which is surrounded by overhanging power lines and paved roads. The same wood that houses a dark and moss-ridden log, that remains the singular answer to the questions that were never asked.

And this Is what I realized, while sitting silently upon that log. This is what was sung by the birds that sung above, and was illuminated by the overhanging sun. This is what was embodied In the voices of the school, and affirmed by the wailings of a passing car. And this is what, at hearing the sound of my name, I stood before, and left In that wood, to be forever discussed among the sun-kissed trees. And, perhaps, one day, once the log has rotted and turned once more to dirt, another tree will fall In the wood, and another will find it, and sit upon it. Then, perhaps, they will hear the same calling birds, and feel the sunlight chase away the Autumn breeze, and the cars that drive along the highway, and they will hear the question posed by the surrounding woods. Then, If they be wiser than me, they might form an answer, and offer it to the forest pines, and then the log on which they sit, may be once again revered by another.

The soft whispering of a cooling fan slowly ticked away inside the computer tower, and drifted slowly through the damp night air. From the monitor, a gentle florescent glow washed across the outstretched keyboard, with the sound of clicking keys slowly gliding through the relative silence. He was on the verge of completing his last entry in his new book, which he had already begun to deem his masterwork. He considered himself a humble man, but, with the recent addition of this new novel to his already impressive collection, he was bound to earn a real name for himself, fully deserving to be placed among such figures as Mark Twain and Jack London. The novel itself was based on modern times, and a young millennial's struggle through a fast paced life of rampant confusion and new tribulations, which the author considered the definitive work of the New Millennium, to be read by future scholars in the same light as Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities. It was these kinds of thoughts that had completely taken hold of his mind, and left him in the kind of productive trance which was usual for the young author. The words flowed freely from his keyboard, and he made no attempts to correct his foul spelling, and did not even attempt to add any sort of recognizable grammar. It was one of those rare moments when he knew exactly what needed to be said, and exactly how to go about saying it, causing his fingers to fly across the keys in a kind of literary ecstasy. It was in times like these that it was hardest to wake him from his trance, and those that where closest to him, and thus knew him on the most intimate terms, knew never to try and do so, as tearing him away from his work at such a crucial time would only result in an articulate and intellectual rage. So, thus undeterred, his nimble hands flew across the keyboard, pausing only to find a rarely used key.

Sitting at the man's feet, and wallowing in a lazy silence, was his dog. Though the dog was much beloved by the author, to the point of a mundane obsession, the dog knew fully well the perils that lie in waking the man from his trance when it seized him. So, the dog had contented himself with laying beside the man's feet, graciously waiting his turn for the man's attention. He was a fairly large dog, of a rather convoluted breed, with long yellow fur and large floppy ears that hid his eyes. In most occasions, or rather, all but the most dire, the dog was calm and remarkably well behaved. He was well liked by all of the author's friends, as he seldom ever interrupted, and was the only dog they had seen which had refused to bark at the mailman. This made it all the more peculiar when the dog began to growl. He did so faintly at first, and the author failed to notice, obliviously pattering away on his keyboard. The dog sat up, ears erect, and stared into the darkness beyond the author's door. The dog remained quiet for a moment, but his gaze never wavered from what he saw in the murky darkness. Suddenly, and without any real warning, the dog jumped up from his bed and began baying. This startled the author, who nearly fell from his chair, keyboard in tow. As long as he had owned the dog, he had never so much as heard it growl, much less the almost violent wailing it shouted into the unseen darkness. The author jumped from his computer, angry at having been so disturbed. He shouted admonishments to the dog, which, in any other circumstances, would have sufficed to silence the dog. Instead, the baying turned to a savage half-howl, and the dog planted itself firmly between the door and his master, as it desperately tried to ward off what ever it had seen at play in the darkness beyond.

This had sufficed to shake the author completely out of his trance, and his following rage, as he stared through his door, by the fading light of his computer monitor. The man rushed to the light switch and switched it on, as fear began to slither up his rigid spine. The small incandescent bulb threw a dim light out of the opened door of his room, into the hallway that lie beyond. He could see nothing out of place, at least in his immediate vision. The hallway, much to his relief, was vacant, and he could see no other presence other than himself and the dog. The dog, however, did not cease in his barking, which had only began to grow worse. The author tried once more to calm his dog, running his fingers through it's coarse hair, and whispering reassurances in it's raised ear. This did nothing to ease the dog's furious howling. The author, if in any other situation, would have most likely been angry at the dog, had fear not suppressed his frail emotions. Now on the verge of terror, the man followed the dog's unwavering gaze. The man had imagined the dog would be looking towards the front door, or perhaps out of a window. Instead, the dog was staring straight into the empty doorway to the basement, it's terrified howl ringing in the man's ears.

The man had never truly invested much of his time in the basement, since acquiring the house a couple months ago. In all honesty, the crumbling and half-finished basement had always slightly unnerved him, with it's stale air and almost consuming darkness. The basement had no windows, and only one light bulb to illuminate the space. In addition to this, the singular light bulb had a habit of flickering, even when the man replaced it with a new bulb. This, however, was not the only reason the man had refused to visit the basement. Something about it had always slightly unnerved him. Sometimes, when he woke in the night, he thought he had heard small pattering sounds under the floorboards he could not quite place. He had consoled himself by saying they were nothing more than mice, though he would never venture down to investigate. Once, on one of the rare occasions he ventured down to the basement, he thought he had seen a flicker of movement, out of the corner of his eye. When he turned, however, to both his horror and delight, he saw nothing save crumbling stone and all-encompassing darkness. Now, things were very different. He had always fancied that his fears toward the basement were largely imaginary, and thus usually solved with a small glass of bourbon. Now, the dog had sensed a real threat in the vast darkness of the basement. A real presence lurked beneath the creaking floorboards, that had, for once in his life, truly terrified him.

The dog continued his howling, now mixed with a low snarling. His soft yellow fur stood on edge, every muscle in his large form shaking violently. Still, his gaze never wavered from those set of darkened stairs. The man, still trying to calm the dog, began rummaging through his desk for some type of weapon. He had a small rifle, but he had been previously cleaning it in the den, which was across the hall. As much as he wanted it, nothing would entice him to walk toward what the dog saw beyond those stairs. Instead, he found a small letter opener tucked away in his desk. It was not much, but holding it made him feel somewhat better. Beyond the circle of light, he thought he saw a flicker of movement. A feeling of dread washed down his spine, causing the blood to freeze in his veins. Apparently the dog had seen it too, and it rushed past him, leaping into the waiting shadows beyond the door.

What followed were perhaps the worst moments of the authors life. He tried to stop the dog as it rushed forward, but to no avail, and his beloved dog, his stanch protector, dived into the darkness beyond. The dog still did not stop his howling, which grew only fiercer. This was followed by a resounding crash as something fell to the ground. A savage snarl echoed up the staircase, followed by what he could only described as a sort of moan. Then came a loud crack, as if someone had crushed a handful of walnuts, followed by a sort of moist tearing sound. A loud whimper resonated through the house, and something else crashed to the ground, and then there was silence. A dark, deathly silence.

The man stood in his room, clutching feebly to his small letter opener. He now felt a terror beyond what he had ever known. His dog was gone, of that he was sure. He was alone. Completely, hopelessly, alone. Part of him wanted to dash across the hall to his den, and retrieve his rifle. Maybe if he could run fast enough, he could make it. He had no other plan, but he found he was unable to move, primordial terror holding fast to his shaking legs. He stood, staring down at the black curtain of darkness that hid the basement, and what ever else was down there. Then, shrouded in tomb like silence, he heard what the dog must have heard, the sound that had drawn it into a protective madness. He heard a slow, rhythmic pattering, as something slowly ascended the basement staircase.

The man backed away from the door, pressing against the far wall. The terror had now crept up his throat, choking out the air from his lungs. He could no longer think, or do much of anything, save clutch his small letter opener. The slow rhythmic thump continued as the thing slowly made it's way up the stairs. It had to be close now. He could feel it. Still, he could see nothing through the blackness beyond the stairs. It was then that a small click sounded from across the room. He looked over, and saw that the soft blue light of his monitor had gone dark. The tower must have already shut off, as the pulsing light of the power button had already disappeared. Then, the rhythmic thumping stopped abruptly, purging the room in the same grave-like silence. Though his mind was slowed, he knew all too well what that silence meant. The thing had reached the top of the stairs.

Still the man could see nothing. He thought he could see an outline of the creature, but it just kept moving, indistinguishable shadows of features slowly shifting in and out of perspective. The thing did not come closer, but remained in the doorway of the basement. The man tried to step further back, but there was nowhere left to go. He was trapped. The soft light of the fluorescent bulb glowed faintly overhead, washing across his pale skin. His muscles trembled from fear, and he could no longer hold his small letter opener. It slipped soundlessly out of his shaking hands, and clattered harmlessly on the floor. It was then that he noticed a faint buzzing noise, sort of like the sound of an old streetlight. Slowly, he looked up, the fear pulsing in his veins, though he already knew what it was. It was the same sound he had heard in that basement, during every accursed trip. His bedroom light had begun to flicker.

He stood staring at it for a few minutes, unable to look away, even at the steps of the basement. It flickered rapidly, on and off, as if it was fighting to stay alive. He pressed closer into the wall, as if it could conceal him. The light bulb slowly started to dim, the time in between bursts slowly increasing. At the basement door, he saw another flicker of movement. He heard a low shuffling sound as the thing drew nearer. Still, the light continued to flicker. Now he could count seconds in between bursts, as the field of light slowly shrunk. He heard more shuffling, closer this time. He wanted to pick up his letter opener, shield himself from whatever creature could be coming, but his knees refused to bend. He wanted to run, to hide, but he knew there was no way to do either. He counted several seconds in between flashes now. He tried to breathe. He tried to think. He could do neither. 

He could no longer hold his shaking leg muscles, and he fell against the wall. He clutched his mouth to stop a scream that would never come. He pulled his legs to his chest, and began slowly rocking back and forth. The shuffling grew nearer, and began to sound less like shuffling, and more like a grotesque mix of beetle-like scurrying and a kind of lifeless dragging. He stopped rocking, and buried his face in his knees. This had to be a dream. Some sick, twisted dream. The light above him continued to flicker, on and off. The shuffling grew louder, as the thing drew closer and closer. He continued to hide his face, the light seeping through his closed eyelids. Then, with a soft pop, the light bulb finally died, and the room went dark. The scurrying continued, closer and closer, until he felt something cold and terrible pressed against his raised knees. And the room fell silent.

Blood trickled down my face, splattering warm droplets on my neck and shirt. It is one of my earliest memories. I don't remember it hurting, and I do not believe I ever actually saw the blood. It was dangerously close to my eyes, and yet I could not see it. Perhaps that was for the better. I was not in any kind of unbearable pain per say, but I did have the acute feeling that I had done something terribly wrong. The kind of feeling that you get when you have broken one of your grandmother's glass plates. A feeling of guilt and fear, mixed with the fact that things are only going to get worse. And so, gathering the small toys that lay strewn around me, now dyed a bright crimson red, I went to my mother. She was on the phone, talking to someone. I forget the name, If I ever knew it in the first place. I debated what I should say. I knew that I had done something I should not have. Something someone was going to have to fix. Yet, I did not want to worry her. I felt awful when I worried her. I gently tugged on her shirt, and calmly whispered the words, "I think I need to go to the doctor". At first she did not hear me, and I tugged again. She whispered hang on. I don't know if she was talking to me or the other person on the phone, but she soon turned towards me. I saw the fear flash in her eyes. She dropped the phone, and it dangled lifelessly on the line. Then, as if to remedy what I had done, I repeated "I think I need to go to the doctor".

I remember a rag, but, in all honesty, it must have been a paper towel. A rag would not soak up so much blood. She rushed me through the front door, past the large stone fireplace that we had in the house. It was one of those massive fireplaces that one would normally otherwise see only in older houses without electrical heat. It stretched to the top of the arched ceilings, and was made all the larger by my small size. I don't remember if it still held the blood stain from where I had fallen. I don't remember anyone ever cleaning it, but it must have had some trace of my fall, most likely in the shape of a small, dark stain the size of a pre-school aged skull. She hurried me to the car that was waiting outside in the driveway. I may have walked, but it is possible I was carried. Either way, we made it to the car very quickly. She said something to me, but I cant remember what. It was most likely something comforting to ease my nerves, or perhaps something comforting to ease her's. 

I do not remember the ride to the hospital. This could have been the strain of years, or perhaps the blood loss, though which I could never be sure. The true answer might have also lain in the fact that the blood dripped from a wound in my head, a little too close to my brain. I do not remember entering the Emergency Room. It, in all probability, was the same kind of tiled, white-washed empty space that most of those types of rooms are. I do, however, remember a nurse, though her features have long since alluded me. She was young, I think, and she wore a mask, but I do not remember ever having seen her without it. Looking back, the mask may have simply been added after the incident, within my own active imagination.

I remember her telling me to hold still, both pleading and demanding. I would learn later that the opening was less than a full centimeter from my left eye, and that a slip of the hand could mean losing sight in that eye. I did not know this, and thrashed violently against her. She tried to hold me down, still pleading for me to be still, assuring me that it would only hurt a little. Even as young as I was, and in my condition, I knew she was lying. More nurses were brought in. I think they were male, but I do not know this for a fact. I felt warm restraints on my wrists and ankles where they held me. I do not know how many of them there where, because a white sheet was placed over my head. I think that is when I screamed. I could see nothing but her face, and that is what remains the most clear to me. Obscured by the white sheet, I could see only her mask as it loomed above me, and a gloved hand that held a long needle, which she lowered into the side of my eye socket.

This pain, I remember. It felt like a sharp prick, like I had been stung by a wasp. It was followed by the apologetic whispering of a nurse, the female one I think, though I cannot be sure. This is the last I remember of the stitching. Eventually, It ended, though I can not be sure of how long it lasted, and what all it involved. And still I can remember, after the work was done, the nurse telling me how good I had been, and how I didn't even cry. Then, she gave me a sucker, blue I think, or maybe orange. Actually, looking back, I am almost certain the sucker had been red. A deep, crimson red.

I do not remember how many stitches I received, but I do know that they worked well in the end. There was no damage done to my eye, and all that remains of the original incident is a small scar around a centimeter from my left eye, and a persisting hesitancy around any type of needle. Most people do not notice the scar, and if they do, they have never told me. I, for the most part, do not notice it either. It has ceased to be a scar, and has become simply another recognizable feature of my face, much like my hair style or eye color. Now, I think about it only rarely, and through the hazy lens of time. The story, however, has yet to leave me.

The sky overhead was dark, lit with the dying embers of the last autumn sun, as it slowly dipped below the ridged stand of trees that encircled the clearing. The soft glow of fireflies streamed out among the wispy branches of the forest pines, and drifted through the fog drenched undergrowth below. The sky was lit with a sea of bright oranges and fiery reds, as the sun began to burn itself out, slowly giving way to an empty twilight. It was during this time that he came here, and walked among the cold headstones that lie strewn across the clearing, at a time when both the season and the sun itself seemed to die. 

He had come to see someone, and held a small bouquet of violets pressed within his clenched fists. He knew the graveyard was too secluded for anyone to see them, but he could not stand the idea of an empty vase adorning her headstone. Not after all she had been through. He said nothing as he walked, weaving in between crumbling and forgotten monuments, the light crunching of gravel underfoot barely audible over the chorus of crickets that sung softly from the wood. No emotion betrayed his face, a grim acceptance masking all of his features.

At one of the far corners of the yard, there sat a single grave, the only one which the moss had not yet overtaken. The graveyard was not used anymore, and it was only by request that she had been lain here, far away from the world which she had so desperately avoided. Finally making his way to the corner, he knelt before her grave, and wiped away the leaves that had piled on top of it. He ran his hands along the cool stone, wiping away a few cobwebs, so that the name Maria Ansley was visible once again, chiseled in thick letters onto the heavy stone slab.

He clenched his fists tighter, his face hardening. He moved his lips silently, as if trying to speak, then closed them without a sound. The damp earth had soaked through the knees of his pants, and the fall cold had begun to seep through his skin. He brushed a few leaves from the empty flower vase that sat in front of her grave, and placed the violets gently inside, careful not to let fall a single delicate petal. His fingers hurt from the biting cold of the stone, and he rubbed them together to warm them. The sun had now sunk completely behind the ridge line, bathing the small clearing in shadow.

His job now done, he sat before the silent headstone for a few more minutes, waiting for something he knew would never come. The sky above had faded from the burning red of sundown to the deep purple of twilight. Still, his face remained blank, any emotion carefully tucked behind a thick mask of stoicism, which silently reflected the indifferent headstone that sat before him. Then he stood, the freshly cut violets placed neatly in the small stone vase, and ran his hand along the contours of the carved name for the last time. 

He stood like this for another moment, not moving nor looking back, and stared at the stars above. The skies were clear tonight, and a celestial sea of stars spilled out across the night, each glowing with a silver light. He stared at them, every blank feature frozen in rapt attention. There where too many to count, each star floating in boundless tides of infinity. And somewhere out there, among the starlit confines of eternity, beyond the reach of death, he saw her name spelled out among the stars.

He glanced back at her headstone, and the now filled vase of flowers that sat before it. The headstone remained emotionless, staring with guarded apathy at the world beyond the clearing. The violets danced carelessly in the night air, a constant blur of bluish-purple, each effortlessly beautiful in their indifference. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathed in the cold autumn air, and listened to the soft chirping of the crickets. And, without a word, he slipped his bare hands into his thick jacket, and turned from the grave.

Not much could be said for the house itself. It was a small, run-down shack with with a large, dilapidated roof and barred windows. Covering the walls was a large coating of tar, to keep at bay the frigid winter air that would seep in come December. It was situated in a large New England forest, isolated from the rest of the world, left to wither away into nonexistence. There was nothing charming about the dwelling, or anything wholesome. It was a sad little house, surrounded by a circle of diseased and dying trees, and stranded in a perpetual gloom. Something about it felt wrong, as if such a place should not exist, and being around it seemed to somehow weigh on one's mind. Even the squatters chose to stay away from it, giving a wide berth to the miserable little house. As far as anyone was concerned, nothing good came from that house, and it was left alone, free to rot in depressed silence.

This was, all but one man. He was a drifter, always a few dollars short of a meal, and a few miles from where he wanted to be. He had no house of his own, and had received word of the place from an old drunk, all in hopes of attaining another beer. The drifter did not particularly want to stay in the house; from what he had heard, it was not the kind of place one wanted to fall asleep in. But he needed a place to stay, had no money to buy a room, and held little esteem for superstition. A house was a house, and he needed somewhere to stay. And so, the drifter swallowed the last of his bummed drink, collected what little he owned, and headed for the little house.

He found it without any trouble. In fact, he was not entirely sure how he found it, considering he had never actually been told where it was. He had simply started walking, and it seemed to find him. It was, in appearances, much as it had been described. A small little shack, surrounded by a circle of dying grass and sickly trees, with an unnatural silence hanging about the place. The house itself was not too bad, he supposed. He had stayed in worse. Still, something about the place set him on edge. He told himself he was only staying for a night, just until he could move on in the morning. He stepped up onto the front porch, and slid the bag off of his shoulder. And after a deep breath, he pushed open the creaking door, and stepped inside.

Inside, the walls were bare, with long gashes on the walls and floors. All of the furniture had been shred by something, some kind of large animal by the looks of it, and strewn across the floor, collected haphazardly in large piles. From the rafters, long strands of cobwebs hung down, swaying silently with the breeze that blew in from the cracks in the walls. And In the center of the room, amid a small pile of shredded cloth, lay a large form, half buried in a pile of shredded cloth, but very much alive. The creature opened it's eyes and stared at him, with two large, jade colored eyes.

It looked like a wolf of some kind, but had a mix of dog blood within it's veins. It was black, with long, coarse hair, that had somehow stayed unmatted. It had sharp, hooked claws, which looked longer than any the man had seen. Even stationary, the creature still managed to look graceful, it's long hair seeming to ripple with each breath, difficult for a thing so large. It looked up at him, it's jade eyes searching him with almost unnatural intelligence. Still, it did not move, or attempt to rise from it's spot. 

The creature made no move to get up, and stared at him patiently, the light dancing in it's bright green eyes. He knew he was not supposed to make eye contact, but there was something in those eyes that seemed to be drawing him, calling to him in a way that was not completely natural. He started walking before he realized what he was doing. He kept staring at those eyes, at the light that swirled just under their surface. And he watched as the strange green fire danced in those large irises, as he drew closer and closer. 

He was not thinking any longer, he was obeying some long dormant instinct. He drew closer out of the singular need to do so. He could not stop his feet from walking, and, try as he might, he could not look away. Slowly, he raised his hand before him, as if offering it to the creature. He wanted to touch it, to feel it's soft head. He wanted to run his fingers through it's mane, and stare at those eyes, to watch the lights dance within them. Gradually, the house faded into the distance. It did not matter anymore. He reached the thing, close enough to touch now, and fell to his knees. He was so close now, and he could feel it's hot breath on his face. Still, he could not look away from those deep set eyes. 

And, slowly, the creature raised it's head, and looked into his face. And it drew closer, still staring into his eyes, it's gaze piercing ever deeper. And, without a sound, it leaped toward him, forcing him violently onto the floor. And with one swift motion, it bit into his neck, and tore the life from his veins, splashing it onto the bare floor. The man saw none of this, however, he saw only the jade, even as it pulled him apart. And with one long, savage wail, the creature called into the night. And from the murky darkness a thousand creatures shuffled silently out of the diseased woods, an insane hunger burning in their jaded eyes.

He had walked for miles, the dry dust of the desolate road stinging his eyes and clouding his vision, caking hardened earth on the inside of his labored lungs. The sun over head was a bright, angry red, and poured out an angry onslaught of blistering heat on his sun scorched face. He walked in a kind of lurching motion, weariness, hunger, and thirst clenching in his stomach and slowing his weathered mind. 

He had nothing, save a large, tattered overcoat, which wrapped around his ankles when he walked. Everything else he had left along the roadway, in order to save himself the weight of carrying it. Not that he had much else, save a few pots and pans and a plastic water bottle. All useless with no food to prepare, and no water to drink. 

He was walking along a dusty back road, and had seen no one else on it. It was most likely abandoned, and the odds of him seeing anyone were scarce. He had not eaten for days, and the cramps in his stomach made it hard to walk. This was nothing, however, compared to his thirst. He could not remember the last time he had drank anything, and he had to frequently stop to cough up thick masses of dirt, often followed by bouts of dry heaving. His head throbbed with a aching, feverish pain, which radiated through his skull, and left small black dots on his blurry vision.

He knew the odds of being found were little, but that had not stopped him from constantly looking ahead at the abandoned dirt road before him, as if a rapture might appear at any moment, spewing cold water from the burning dust. Whether it was these thoughts that kept him going, or the inability to think beyond them was uncertain, even to him. He walked simply because he had to walk. Around each bend in the road lie another chance of salvation, and his life now depended solely on finding it. So, with a lurching step, and head downcast, he pressed on.

He was unsure of how long he walked like this, minutes and hours had long since melded into obscurity. He knew only when he stopped, when the pebbles along the roadside began to jump. He knew, better than any, what that meant. A car was coming. Salvation had finally arrived. 

The car pulled up, a teal sedan with three passengers. The radio played loudly out of the lowered windows, overlaid with three high pitched voices, singing and laughing. He waved his hands frantically, and he could see the driver look in his direction. He shuffled his way to the car, hands still waving. 

Without a word, the windows in the car rolled up, and the car sped past him, without a backward glance. He fell to the ground, choking violently on the dust the car left behind. And with one last pleading glance, he watched as salvation vanished, swallowed by the quickly fading horizon.