Thomas Charles Henry

Here’s a little something I wrote for Hallowe’en. Enjoy! Or don’t.

Pursuit

How long has it gone on?
Days? Weeks? Months? Years?
I cannot recall.
All I know is that he is always there.

My tormentor is relentless. His pursuit, incessant.
He is patient.
Confident.
As though time itself is on his side.
And why not?
Why rush when you can relish?
Savour every second like some exotic delicacy, begging to be devoured whole.
It is enough to drive you crazy.
Perhaps it has.
Perhaps that is the point.
Yet wait he does.

He always knows when to find me alone.
A sixth sense perhaps, or a network of spies?
He has no need for such tricks.
Content to always be watching.
He lurks in shadows.
Hides in innocent places: behind doors; inside closets; under beds.
Dark recesses I dare not peer into.

He is close, even now.
The wind whispers warnings as it leans against the house, which groans in response.
It knows what awaits
The floorboards shift and creak in anticipation of his footsteps.
The stairs, always treacherous, seem to elongate as I plot an escape.
The rooms shrink; my lungs with them.
They say a man’s home is his castle.
Mine is under siege.
My armies have fled.
There is no sanctuary to be found here.
I clench my eyes tight like fists.
My heart tries to choke me.
He’ll do that for us soon enough, I think, and swallow it back down.
I attempt to wrestle back some control, but I am pulled taught: stretched to my elastic limit.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

There is a beat.
A pause.
I cannot tell how long it lasts: a single second, or eternity.
It is a moment of absolute silence, of pure nirvana.
It contains nothing, and everything in the known universe.
And then it ends.
Violently.
At the command of a sound.

A deep, throaty chuckle.

Snap!

Suddenly, I am running.
The house is pulled from under me like the tablecloth in a magician’s trick.
The autumn air fills my lungs with familiar, intoxicating tastes.
Smoke. Frost. Past and future rain.
Blood.
Decay.
I relinquish control of my body, trusting my legs to move of their own accord.
If I consider the mechanics of how to run, I will surely fall.
Instead, I know that I will never run faster again.
Yet still he gains ground.

Something feels different.
It is as if the rules have changed.
One way or another, it all ends tonight.
We have reached the conclusion of our game.

I sense fingers about to close on my shoulder.
If they achieve their goal, the next thing I feel will be the vicious kiss of steel carving its way between my ribs.
Will I gasp, or scream in perverted ecstasy, as I am penetrated again and again?
A treacherous part of me wants it; embraces the idea; anticipates the spreading warmth that would follow.
A liquid embrace.
Perhaps I am simply tired of it all.
Just get it over with, I think.

“No!”

I duck away from the grasping hand and throw myself down into a ball.
I feel impact, but it comes from blunt boot rather than sharp blade.
He sprawls, caught off guard, and suddenly there is a feral beast atop him.
Punching.
Scratching.
Biting.
How the metamorphosis came about, I do not know; but I am grateful for the animal I have become.
One powerful enough to subdue this prey.

I reach towards his face, for the thing that has haunted every moment of my existence.
I grope at the mask.
Hasn’t this always been his greatest weapon?
The source of all his power?
Yet, even as it comes away, I think: Surely it cannot be this easy?
After all this time.
After all this terror.
There is has to be one final twist.

And here it is.

I look down into a face I recognise.
It is one I have seen countless times.
He stares back with the same petulant expression that greets me every time I look into a mirror.
His lips (my lips) crack into a wide maniacal grin (my grin).

He begins to laugh.
A moment passes and I join in.
It is a sound that causes the very air around us to wince and retreat.
He laughs because he thinks that I cannot kill him.
I laugh because I have never been more certain that I can.
And I will.

Our world is now irrevocably changed.
The transition is jarring, but I immediately feel comfortable in this new role I get to play.
The new skin I get to wear.
He comprehends and his laughter dies.
Mine grows in turn to fill the void.
Panic morphs his features as he struggles to extricate himself from under me.
I allow him this one small victory.
I am in no hurry.
Why rush when you can relish?
He scrabbles to his feet and begins to run.
I reach for the knife.
It feels familiar, like shaking the hand of an old friend.
He dares one final look behind, in time to see me pull the mask down over my face, then tears away as if the devil himself is chasing him.
Perhaps he is.
Perhaps that is the point.

Slowly, I get to my feet.
Inexorably, I begin my pursuit.