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Any World You Choose
James Gilmer | | | | | |
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It came back to him again, the smell of the damp forest at
night. The oppressive trees, old and twisted things with bent
limbs that blocked even the meager light from the pale moon. He heard
the sounds of that night come back to him, the snapping of twigs and
the whisper of the wind among the underbrush. He could feel the sound
building out there, in the silence. He felt the terror again even
before the banshee wail was struck up. Poor little Richard, twleve
years old and standing alone in the dark forest, clothed only in his
nightshirt and briefs. Spinning this way and that, calling his friend's
name into the night.
The sound came again. Nails upon a chalkboard were nothing.
This was the song of the lost soul, this was the sound his
grandmother had warned him about. The song of the banshee, come to
announce the death of some poor sinner.
The silvery light burned suddenly in the forest. It seemed to
erupt around Richard, and his scream was lost in the banshee's
wail. He saw Peter again, standing there against the glow, only a few
yards away and bathed in the unearthly light.
"Listen to the music Richard! Isn't it brilliant! Come on
Richard, we have to go. They won't wait long!" Then as now,
Richard wondered how he could hear his friend over the din. He could
see Peter smiling and laughing. Arm upraised and beckoning Richard to
join him.
Against the light Richard could see the shadows moving behind
Peter, dark and bent shapes that seemed to flow and waver.
There was Peter in the middle of it, seeming oblivious to the tormented
wail that nearly deafened Richard. Peter seemed to be receeding into
the light, or perhaps the light was enveloping him. His figure became
more indistinct, as if he was losing his substance and becoming but
shadow.
The light grew brighter and Peter's form was swallowed as
Richard turned and ran. Branches whipped across his face as he
tore through the underbrush, bloody trails mixing with the tracks of
his tears as he screamed his way through the forest.
He awoke to morning's light and an empty bed. Sweat soaked the
sheets and the pillow was speckled with blood. He wiped at his
mouth and his hand came away bloody from where he had chewed through
his lower lip.
He rose and strode to the bathroom to spit the blood from his
mouth and shower away the cold, fear-induced sweat that clung
to him. He spat in the sink and stared at the blood for a few moments
before washing it down the drain.
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