Rustling

Blades of grass tower over me. So tall. Too tall. They wave in unfelt winds, encroaching from all sides.

But it is not what causes the rustling.

I walk through corridors of vegetation. Overhead light flickers from crying street lamps, leaking, dripping, unseen tears. The hair on my neck stands up. Goosebumps make me shiver.

But not because of the lamps.

I see them in a field ahead. Their noses pressed to the cold, hard dirt, they shuffle on all fours, endlessly tracing paths in a field of arid, yellowed hay, faces shrouded by black cowls. They snuffle as they search in circles, foraging like mad boars, for treasures unknown. I want to get away from them, but therein lies the problem.

I am forced to pass them.

They pay me no heed, it seems. Their sniffs and rustling are loud, and I am small, so small.

Suddenly they all stop. An icy shiver runs down my spine in the absence of sound. The are still, only turning their heads, back and forth, back and forth, as if deciding on where the intruder is. I move through the grass, and they continue their perpetual crawls. I realise at that point, the futility of running.

There is no key. No key to escaping.

I stoop low and start searching, hands parting grass, face close to the ground. Perhaps it is here? Or... there?

Based on a recurring childhood dream.