With October’s chill frosts I waken and creep, through rustling leaves and sighing winds and the shadows of gnarled tree branches that scratch like long bony fingers at window panes by night. Sweet, sweet night.
Mist thinly veils the sweet, silver moon, like silky veils over an expectant bride. What footsteps those, on cobblestone streets in the shadow of sleeping towers, in the cold, pale light of the moon? Echoes, you say? So you might pray.
What forms will I take, twisting like mist in the breeze, like the leaves changing as the season shifts, as the border grows thin and moonlight falls on headstones while lovers quietly dream? Am I a shadow lurking on a distant half-lit street corner, or on the creaking dark porch of an abandoned house you hurry to pass, your heart quickening? Or, am I closer? A half-recalled memory cloaked in layered guises that waits just beyond the misty border of your next dream?
Or, am I closer still? Do I hide in the deepest, blackest depths of the heart of the one you love and trust? Whose mask must you peel aside to find me? Friend? Lover? Child? Where do I hide, in the light you think you know, and how far away is the onset of night?
Or, am I closer yet? Am I that half-glimpsed hunger that hides behind your eyes in the mirror? Do I come only for others, or do I wait behind everyone’s door, waiting only for you to open it? Am I coming for you next? Is yours the mask that next I’ll wear?