“Simon, Simon?”
Simon, barely awake, rubbed his blurry eyes but couldn’t determine what was in front of him. The world swam in shades of grey, the familiar shapes of his bedroom dissolving into abstract forms. As his eyes became more focused, he couldn’t believe what he saw; he shook his head in disbelief and stared at a shimmering mist that coalesced into a familiar form.
“Deborah?”
His voice was a croak, rusty from sleep and laced with a hope he hadn’t dared to entertain for years. The mist solidified further, revealing her. Her white dress flowed around her like moonlight on water. She was pale, almost translucent, but her presence was enchanting, a heartbreaking echo of the vibrant woman he had loved. Her hair, the colour of a raven, cascaded around her face, framing the delicate features he knew so well.
He reached out to her, his hand trembling, desperate to touch the real her, to banish the year of grief that had become a part of him. But suddenly, he stopped.
He saw a shadow behind her, a swirling darkness that seemed to emanate from the very air. The shadow casts over her, dimming her light, a parasite feeding on her ethereal glow. A cold dread gripped Simon, a sharp premonition that stole his breath.
All he could hear was the ticking clock, each tick a hammer blow against the silence, marking the relentless passage of time she no longer had. The ticking intensified, morphing into a rhythmic drumbeat of impending doom.
Suddenly, the figure wrapped its arms around her waist. It was a possessive embrace, a cold, cruel claiming. Who was this figure? It was formless, a void-given shape, yet radiating an almost palpable malice. It was taunting him, Simon knew, callously laughing at him with a soundless, chilling mirth.
“No, please don’t take her.” The words were a choked whisper, a plea to a force he couldn’t comprehend, a battle he knew he was already losing.
The figure still callously laughs, a phantom vibration in the air, but it doesn’t come into view. Its grip tightens on Deborah, drawing her closer and obscuring her light even further.
“NO, Who are you? Deborah?” Simon shouts desperately, his voice raw with anguish. He wants Deborah to come back and needs to understand. He knows, with a certainty that pierces his soul, that she wants to tell him something vital, something buried beneath the years of unanswered questions.
He lunged forward, his hand grasping at empty air, desperate to rip the figure away, to reclaim the woman he had lost too soon. But she was fading, dissolving back into the shimmering mist she came from.
All he could see now was the darkness, the void that had swallowed her whole, and the lingering echo of that silent, mocking laughter.
But she had gone, leaving Simon distraught. The ghostly figure had taken her, leaving him alone in the silent room, the ticking clock the only witness to his agony. He sank to his knees, the weight of his grief crushing him. The vision, the fleeting glimpse of Deborah, had brought him not comfort but a renewed and unbearable pain.
He knew now, with chilling certainty, that he would never truly be free of her memory and that the figure, the embodiment of his loss, would forever lurk in the shadows, a constant reminder of the love that was stolen and the secrets that would remain forever unspoken.
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C. Langley
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