Sacred to Some
By Barbara Harrison
At first there had only been the insane xylophone song of the radio running tirelessly through its familiar sequence of off-key notes, scanning for news on car wrecks.
In the distance the city floated on a sea of gossamer, misty tendrils encircling its towering walls in a deathly and devious embrace. Soon it had all but disappeared into the cold grip of that night.
Closer, but not close enough to properly discern, Ken sometimes saw fires fizzling and crackling in the gloom, spitting crimson sparks into the darkness. They resembled open wounds, bleeding redly. A vast informal settlement lay there.
It was a terrible night, but it was less than two months to Christmas and Ken was looking forward to the holidays.
Just past one, he had stopped for a bite, pulling onto a dirt track leading off the highway, when a ragged figure unexpectedly materialized in the fog. His head, chest, and limbs all appearing to take shape separately in the white haze.
It was a tall, but seemingly ancient man. Barefoot and dressed only in torn jeans, he lurched drunkenly down the road where Ken had parked.
His torso gleamed wetly in the car’s headlights, and every few steps he stumbled in one of the jagged potholes that littered the road. He was heading straight for Ken, mad determination etched on his lined features – moving surprisingly fast.
For a moment Ken watched in horrified fascination. He tried to start the vehicle – failed, tried again and failed… He fought back a wave of panicked nausea – and then another terrible truth… The old man was the first living creature Ken had seen all night.
Suddenly the musty smell of the car’s worn upholstery was unbearably sharp, the endless chortling of the radio scraping at the base of his spine. He was alone, very, very alone.
The car spluttered once, before the engine died again. Ken looked up at the old man, now towering over the vehicle. The man stared back, swaying gently from side to side.
Sweating copiously, his heart threatening to explode, Ken, finally managed to engage the ignition.
“Beware,” the old man roared, his impossibly low-pitched voice sending ripples of movement through the fog. “Beware.”
He smashed his foot down on the accelerator, missing the old man by inches, racing in the direction the apparition had appeared from.
Unexpectedly the radio was crackling to life and continued crackling, making the message almost indiscernible.
“A warning……expect…..Beware……Beware”
The radio went dead again. Even so he could still hear the old man screaming in the distance.
“Beware! Beware!”
But it was too late. It was October 31, not quite Christmas, but sacred to some.
An End
