Shadow

That shadow has been following me since the evening. It's one of those shadows I've always seen in the corners. Of tree trunks and leaves, of walls, of poles and of men. But then it was different too. As if it was moving among the still shadows, as if it rustled among the silent shadows. As I walked along the street the shadow seemed to be following, ever getting a fraction of an inch closer. As if it was bound to reach me very soon but not yet.

I gathered the most courage I could and led myself forward. Blind to the time past and ahead. Just getting as close to habitation as I could. The shadow somehow seemed to have a great resemblance with loneliness.

But this dark thing was alive, and I knew it. And the street seemed to never end. Other shadows of tree leaves seemed to flutter: of climbers seemed to reach out to my ankles to bind my feet. Ever so close. Yet not reaching me yet.

It took me the most part of an hour to reach the place where I could see a house.  It was a lonely house but a welcome sight nonetheless, for there was a lamp hanging on its porch. I lunged for the lamp and grabbed it with both hands. Relieved, I looked at the light of the lamp. The shadow of a hand moved inside the lamp. And then another. I dropped the immediately, and the lamp shattered. Darkness fell and a silent whisper, the most silent whisper that cold air could make, prickled the back of my neck.

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