Preface

The preface to my short story "The Stranger".

PREFACE

I had not ever been in the capacity before to speak about this incident and think to walk away with my life intact. As the incident presently being alluded to is one quite strange, I imagine it would be sufficient to simply refer to it from now on as 'the Incident' when I am referring to an isolated instance between myself and a particular fellow, and 'the Stranger' when I refer to the curious character I had encountered in my travels to various places around town -- henceforth where these incidents took place -- that took the role of  instigating these happenings. Or perhaps, I am the instigator, for it seems I'm walking into his path, and he simply observes, not moving, as I move closer and closer towards him. I had met this stranger several times before, yet at all times, only briefly, and at most, exchanging a quick glance or being the passive recipient of a few hushed words. I must say now, I have never found myself in the opportunity to return any meaningful dialogue to this man simply because the encounters are too brief -- merely passing moments in time, a blink of an eye. But despite this, my memory of each encounter is etched into my mind, each one as vivid as the one that preceded it.

This stranger is not by any means your normal anonymous passerby. He sees me, yet I don't catch him. He eludes my tracing eye, and yet he appears to follow me wherever I go, no matter what distance I cover. He is there one moment, and gone the next. The first few occasions were enough to signify that they were odd, but harmless enough to shrug off as the product of the occasional slip-up of the mind. That which we have no control over. These encounters, however, were more than occasional, in spite of the fact they were unexpected. It's like knowing you could die at any moment -- a possible reality, yet an outcome one wishes to dismiss as a hypothetical. Perhaps death is a crude example to use: these encounters are numerous, unlike death, and with the passing of each, I slowly unravel into a more unnerved state of mind in anxious anticipation of when the next dreaded occurrence will take place. I would not say this if it weren't for the simple fact, that the inspiration of this account derives from a single incident, which I have introduced as simply 'the Incident'. Had it not been for this particular occurrence, I would not find myself curled up, writhing in fear of knowing that these encounters, once a rare peculiarity, had been increasing in menacing frequency from after this date.

I don't recall what day it was, or what time it was that this fateful meeting took place. Such minute details are rendered trivial in the shadow of such a menacing event. I should note that by the time it took place, I had already possessed an accustomed familiarity with the unconventional -- I worked as a manager of a curiosity shop down south, taking in various trinkets warned to be hexed by their owners, yet not experiencing any of these foreboding effects they claimed to surely deliver. I only recall what I will henceforth recount. I had been sitting in my room, reading an article discerning between euthanasia and assisted suicide in terms of their ethical implications. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a hooded man.

Turning around to catch a better glimpse of him, I saw he had on nothing more than a scarlet hood, which looked to have been painted such by the blood of perished enemies, as inferred by the splatter that slowly tricked down the side of his hood over onto his face -- which played host to a pair of indifferent steel gray eyes, staring right past me, matching well with the stoic expression on his member, not at all bothered by the splatter. The entire lower half of his body was conspicuously absent. In one hand, he carried a toned copper flail, which had seen its days of battle. Its head from which a rusted chain was attached dangled aimlessly in the air. His left hand bore a single gold ring that flashed in the light. The items he carried with him struck me as having a far more corporeal existence than this apparition himself. I wondered how he could manage such a feat of bearing the load of these objects under what seemed to be thin air.

And then I saw it. It was a silver, curved scimitar, which also gleamed, despite the fact that the light in the room was very dim -- I was planning to rest. I had no words for what I saw, much less any ability to sound out my amazement. The blade was perfect in form, sporting an unfamiliar, oblong crest insignia on its sheath. A pulsating light trailed its frame as I paused to steal a glance at it, and then faded, as if its purpose was to catch my attention, deemed itself a job well done, and left off without further incident. I looked back up to the figure before me, imposing in stature. I summoned up my courage and rose up to speak to it, but he himself rose up into the ceiling and faded into nothingness before I could express a single word of admonition. This whole event took no more than five seconds. A sudden weakness overtook my legs and I collapsed into my chair, breathing a sigh of relief that I didn't have to face the consequences of my bravery.

I thought about what happened. Thoughts buzzed around in my mind like jittery insects in a nervous frenzy.

This man -- this pale stranger -- had appeared and sustained his presence for no more than a moment's passing time. That was a sure fact, wasn't it? Yes -- this wasn't a hallucination. It was too real to be a mere product of my mind. No, I thought to myself. I need to think. Really think about this. Calm down first. My chest had been methodically pumping up and down with each hurried breath I took, rising quickly, and sinking slowly. I soon became aware that this pumping was an unconscious act, and sought to relieve the aching pressure by gradually taking slower and deeper breaths.

My pulsating heart was thumping steadfast against my ribcage, and soon returned to a slow, somber beat. I looked around and saw that the entire room was empty with the obvious exception of myself. Okay, I thought to myself, let's try this again. It was a fact that at the very least, my mind witnessed something. This does not mean that I had actually witnessed it, for my mind would be registering something physical. This something was not physical in any way, shape, or form. Was it intangible? In the supernatural realm, even intangible beings require some form of interaction to verify that they actually exist. Alright, I reasoned, so it's possible that I encountered an intangible being. 

I mulled through the other options out loud, given that no one present was there to lend an ear to my seeming incoherency anyhow. It was not a hallucination, I reasoned, because I hadn't ingested any hallucinogens, and I didn't feel feverish or sleep deprived, as I was just about to retire to bed. I felt the touch of the paper I was reading within the grasp of my hands. I hadn't taken notice that it was there, really. I quickly threw it to the floor, scattering its contents across the room. I couldn't afford distractions, no matter how placid they seemed. I took a final wavering breath in effort to collect my thoughts. Yep, I thought. Whatever that thing was, it was real. 

This was the first time I'd experienced anything like this. I had no history of mental illness. No recollection of taking any drugs or vision-inducing medicines. ...Do those even exist? "Well," I muttered, shaking my head, "well." I carefully removed my spectacles and dabbed at them with the edge of my shirt before replacing them into their case. I edged around the clock to see what time it was. Ten-thirty at night. A hmph of satisfaction resounded from my throat. I made the way to my bed. "The crypt awaits my welcoming warmth," I whispered. That's funny, I thought. Why'd I say that? "Nervousness," I muttered in answer, "simply nervousness." And with that final acknowledgment, I dropped myself straight onto the bed, and drifted off to sleep.

Author's Note

Comment on what you like, and what you think needs improvement. ^_^