Marked by Lucian

I’m walking down a dark street on my way home from work; I stayed late today. There are no more buses or trams. These old buildings terrify me, but the whole way home I feel something—someone is watching me. The feeling is awful; I just want to get home. I remembered the story, the story about him. I shook my head, “I’m probably just tired from work,” I sighed deeply and kept walking. The journey felt like an eternity that would never end. In my town everyone said, “If you feel someone or something behind you, don’t turn around, because then you’ll look evil in the eye,” but the feeling was irresistible—I had to know what was watching me. I turned around, and there he stood: tall, muscular, a bloody knife in his hand glinting in the moonlight. I froze. I looked at him—I knew he was dangerous, I could see it—yet the feeling was so overwhelming that I couldn’t look away. He let out a quiet but chilling sound people call laughter, but it wasn’t ordinary laughter; it was a horrifying sound that made my blood run cold. I stood there motionless, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. In a second, he was right in front of me. His hand moved toward my face, and then—fabric. A cloth on my mouth. The moon disappears. Everything disappears.