It's my first post, I'm 15 years old and a swede, so don't be too hard on me.
Feel free to express whenever you spot an error with the language
Horror story:
Phantoms of our Time
It sits there, doesn't it? I believe that's all it does. Lays in the most unacquainted corner of a mans head. Presumably in the rear area, presumably everlasting. Occasionally it drops a tear falling towards our tail bone. But what summons it? Maybe it's any precedent experience, we don't know. What we know is, it riddles us, and wipes out all our moral. Basically it kills the best of us, makes us doubt the sanity of the visual aspect, nonetheless. It is the hazardous core of mind deterioration.
It's not cold, nor chilly, as my twin like wheels spin down the streets of Manhattan. Perhaps the sun is dead. Or perhaps just concealed by a humongous dark ring, also referred to as “the moon”. But I like to think of it as a dark ring, to rob our sacrosanct, unobstructed and virgin planet of these particular features. It could, by any chance restrict my liberty of training in the rain every so often, but I've got a bike, and I've got the fists of Hercules, so I'm contented.
My philosophy tends to match the shift of time, and I've carefully reviewed comportment's of all types. I've reviewed the following as due, and added a poetic touch to the whole concept:
The lonely: Dawn and dusk to them ain't dire, on the darkest days they all conspire.
The homeless: Out to fight on every night, but at sunrise they're civilized.
Everyday people: The most boring kind of them all, up at dusk, down at dawn.
What we don't want to know of: All around us, creating a sphere, a dreadful sensation strikes us with fear. Forged by terror, aroused by trepidation, spills our blood, it's a dreadful sensation.
My mind wanders off to inaugurate on another lane eventually, but is abruptly intercepted by a drip of water. It's not cold, nor chilly. It's warm and moderates some sweat. That's not a normal shiver.
It was satisfactory, in a way. I distinguished something darker than the night, in the moonlight presence. Shades are always lurking at these hours. I like to believe they lurk beneath me, around every corner and even at my doorstep. It's my ordinary approach in a reversed psychology formula. Then again, this philosophy was taught by my dearest father and mother. They enlightened me mostly, and we differ not much.
As the ring devoured the morals and ethics of Manhattans population, the pure darkness shifted to gloom and murk. I was never exhausted by physical endurance, and for all I know I'm a human bat, in theory.
So why was a veritable shade lurking around the corner of a musty highrise still distinguishable? The abhorrence that was mobilized was yet to compose, but that warm shiver whose temperature ascended revoked my intervention plans. I found myself in a chocked state, but managed to contradict my accustom rotund plot for every night biking, and so I biked towards home. But I sure wasn't heading for home. These biking trips in the dark are in my insight both crucial and essential for a good days sleep. I wouldn't, nor couldn't be affected to discontinue this frequent procedure.
Then the wind claimed the streets of Riverside. That's a partial downside of the life in Manhattan, the wind by the river. It constantly drove a horrid cloud of carnage and rot to embrace the city, source was the harbor.
The stench caught on to me, and on the spur of the moment, as I was biking down Amsterdam avenue my vision rapidly faded. Now it was darker than ever before. Was there an issue with the retina?
Anyhow, the pitch darkness of my vision seemed to emphasize the intellect of my tympanum, which led me to registering the noise of my bike, rolling away.
I blinked many times over again to recover my eye sight, which I eventually manage to achieve, but the retina was now marked with speckles and blur. The bike had absconded, but that never struck my mind. It never did, because of the jingling bells which with a constant ringing attracted me. The were hanging on thin rope wrapped around the pole of a wooden inn.
The innkeeper was a foul creature, but talented in socializing. The inn itself was cozy and as humble as it gets. Bar stools of authentic mahogany were bulging in comparison to the surroundings. The customers seemed too well-settled, I thought as I spotted drunken campers amongst the rest of us.
The being next to me looked resolute, with a close-bitten, hard-set mug. His appearance frightened me, but I could collect the courage to speak.
“You been here long?”, was the dumbest question expressed in the scenario.
“Arrived now.”
I found it funny. Since my arrival none else had.
I noted his pitch. He had a deeply pitched voice, rusty but not old.
He took a sip of his drink.
“Replenishment.”, was his next uttering, and thenceforth staff established a process of refills.
“The outside sure feels sinister at this time.” I was a wuss, and that's a thought I held on to.
“I've got a maxim of biking each night, it's the motive behind my presence. Yeah... Funny as it is I was knocked over by...”
“The wind uh?”
“Read my comprehension, did you? Anyway I never been 'round this avenue before, so I tried to develop some safekeeping method. That's how I ended up here.”
The foul innkeeper interrupted us.
“Uh... Sir, need a drink?”
“Surprise me with whatever”, I replied, waving my hand in the air.
I was glad he eventually asked. I had a headache pounding simultaneously with the rate of my heart beating, and were in use of some aid.
“This isn't it.”
His sudden statement shook me. Staff number one cowered in the corner, staff number two was concealed beneath a quilt, and the innkeeper had vanished.
“What?”
“For safekeeping, it's the wrong place.”
“Why is that?
“Ever seen one of those uh... Shades?”
He turned his head around a notch, now face down towards mine, confronting me.
I glanced at the planks, nicely lined up behind him. No shadow? Tried to evade his confrontation and kept searching for a reflection. He was merely visible through direct contact. Not through glass, not by mirror. Nothing else.
As mute as I was nothing assisted composure. With eyes wide open, and a fully recovered eye-sight the redness of this horrific beings pupils were carefully stressed. He plugged the faucet next to him and fondled the knob. The knob he then forcefully pulled. A beautiful transparent and brown liquid fluently clustered by the drain.
I opened my mouth to reply, which actually only was a desperate way of avoiding trouble, but was abruptly interrupted by the jingling bells, with an increasing velocity. But this time the jingling was thunderous and earsplitting, arduous to endure. It deteriorated my headache viciously.
Behind the being appeared two shadows, into one which he acceded himself. The three darken replicas sunk their forms around me to overmaster any good in my life.
The blood in my veins was spilled, and has by now definitely coagulated graciously. On the bright perspective of life, I didn't have to suffer through that baffling headache.
