A dance of death- part one

In this world, few beings ever experience -ever truly experience- that thing we call fear. Few ever know that one fateful moment when life hangs in the most fragile of balances, as thin as the silken fibres of a spider web, between this world and the next. We do not live, those who feel not death's skeletal hand suspended a mere inch from their shoulder for each and every second of their lives, until at last death snatches then away. Instead, they merely exist as waifs wandering this mortal plane, ever blind to the beauty of the world.



The dull November sun lazily sunk from her darkening kingdom of sky, casting bloodied hues of scarlet across the firmament, as the horizon greedily swallowed her. A few leaves still desperately clung to their gnarled trees, taking for themeselves complexions of demure brown and a sickly orange. Their fallen brothers lay defeated on the battleship grey pavement, the carcasses crunching beneath the heavy boots of passers by.



It was along this crowded street I hurried, clutching at my thick coat as the wind violently assaulted my limbs. The rain slapped against my face, forcing an involuntary grimace from me. I pulled out the sodden piece of paper, reading the address once more, then quickly pockete it before the wind could steal it. I followed my sodden feet down a deserted alley, suddenly aware of a terrible silence. The thick silence was so tangible that you could taste its very presence in the air. Yet worse still was the darkness. Not a single lamp illuminated the street, nor did any of the fading sunlight; the towering buildings guarding the street from the ethereal plane.



From what I could comprehend of the ugly houses with the little light I had, each one seemed to inspire a whole new level of detest than the last. A shiver ran down my spine as my eyes edgily darted from the foreboding boards that acted as windows to the grotesque gargoyles, whose corroded faces leered down at me. In the very centre of the street, there stood by far the most hideous of the houses. Thick iron bars were stuck fast to the boarded up windows, making the building a prison. The house number, painted in blood red, revealed itself a thirteen. I needed no glance at the paper bearing the address of my destination to know that this was it; the very house itself seemed to radiate an aura of destiny.



With every nerve, every muscle, every cell I possessed screaming in protest, I rapped sharply on the door thrice. It wearily creaked open. I entered. With a groan of reluctance, the door closed itself behind me. The slam echoed across the whole house. I whimpered internally. The hallway was as black as the deepest of Dante's abysses of hell. So black that my trembling hand itself was hidden from my eyes. And then, a voice spoke. A beautiful voice, so low and deep that I almost wept in reflection of my own inadequacy

"Enter," commanded the perfect voice. I could never do anything but obey. As if in a hypnotised trance, my legs slowly swung forwards. Of its own mind, my hand reached for a door handle obscured from my sight. Grasped it. Barely noticing the icy chill about my person, I turned the handle and entered the room, ready to face whatever being awaited me.