Skip to main content
~The Midnight Hour~
by Noah A. Bowen

He wore a top hat, frock coat, carried a sword stick, and had the tendency to lick at the froth that would often flick from the corners of his mouth. He preferred alleys to streets, night to day, and, with the insistent accuracy of a madman, never wore white. His cape was, as was all else, of black silk only the lining, a smear of stark scarlet that would flicker and weave about his shoulders as a flame of some diabolic heritage would a coal. The stiff collar rose high and red against his tall hat giving his pallid face the appearance of some pagan god.
He wavered under the street lamps like a shadow, and through the alleys, neath a full moon and cloud mottled sky. Somewhere a clock boomed as it clicked mid-night, the specter looked to the sky, the moon becoming an eerie glimmer in his empty black eyes. The time was ripe and with each tick of the hour and darkening of shadow, growing richer, sweeter still. He stopped at a boarded door and, with gnarled hands and bony wrists, broken nails and insidious determination, began to pry, board by board, the splintery barrier from the stoop with the heavy breathing of a deranged mind. The moon cast a sickly yellow hue across his parchment like skin and, at last, the deed was done.
Digging through his pocket he extracted a key, of which he rattled into the rusty lock and opened the door. Flinging it open then twisting into its alcove with an obscene cackle, slowly the door creaked shut. He filtered silently to the center of the musty room, fraying cobwebs clinging to his cape, and, kneeling, fingered the decaying floorboards till he felt the iron hoop cold in his grasp. With a profane utterance hissing between his teeth, he heaved and the floor opened to a foul smelling hole, depraved whispers lisping from below its inky blanket. Letting the door drop back with a sickening thud he groped at the walls of the dark prison till corroded links clinked dully against his groping. Hoisting the chain to the surface, he opened a small teek-wood box at its end and removed a sinister yellow oboe. This he placed to his lips a produced a morbid sonata of fiendish notes that reverberated down into the hole with hollow, demonic delight. Something groaned fare below, something ancient and thirsty. He ceased playing the oboe and, twisting his head to a tilt, listened in ghastly silence.
Again the restless groan came, only closer.
Crawling to his feet and drawing away from the hole, he watched in awe as an ominous black shape oozed from the prison and slithered hideously out the door, into the night, a clammy chill in its wake.
Re-setting the oboe and lowering it back deep within the tomb, he closed the moldy trap door with a gust of stale air, then, locking the door behind him, departed. The malignant glimmer in his eyes praising the release of the unholy devil with every flutter of his damned soul.
Long had it waited in the ruined catacombs of desolation, waited patiently for the forbidden gathering of the faith-full, waited as time withered its dank hair and wicked spirit. Till, at last the door opened on grating hinges and the still air wafted into motion, it was released.
He glided down the alleyways, a broken silhouette, following the nauseous scent of embalming fluids. His cadaverous face warped into a sickly, loathsome leer that seamed to tear from ear to ear, bleeding bubbling drool and sprouting lengthy, pointed fangs. He turned from the alley onto a street spattered with radiant pools of moon light that spilt down from the gaping holes within the clouds, and if looked close enough, one might notice, no shadow flicked at his heels.
And with that, he cackled blasphemously and faded beyond the macabre fog that enshrouded the city at the midnight hour, the limping slap of his feet on the cobbled streets slowly bleeding to a dry silence.
A clock chimed in the distance, and so passed the midnight hour.

Fine'


"that one guy"

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Old post from the Anthropik network

"I noticed, when she delivered the plate of fruit, that my Balian hostess was also balancing a tray containing many little green bowls-small, boatshaped platters, each of them woven neatly from a freshly cut section of palm frond. The platters were two or three inches long, and within each was a small mound of white rice. After handing me my breakfast, the woman and the tray disappeared from view behind the other buildings, and when she came by some minutes later to pick up my empty plate, the tray was empty as well. * On the second morning, when I saw the array of tiny rice platters, I asked my hostess what they were for. Patiently, she explained to me that they were offerings for the household spirits. When I inquired about the Balinese term that she used for "spirit," she repeated the explanation in Indonesian, saying that these were gifts for the spirits of the family compound, and I saw that I had understood her correctly. She handed me a bowl of sliced papaya and
Secret Lives of Meter Readers If you are looking for a long walk every day with not bad pay, maybe meter reading is the ticket. Generally, you get to spend a lot of peaceful time by yourself, plenty of serene reflecting space, unhindered by a bickering work crew. Simply dedicating yourself to reading meters all day can actually lead to a very ascetic lifestyle. When a vault into the earth is uncovered, great mysteries lie inside. Neighborhood kids dash over and want to spy. Newts and frogs, snakes, snails and polliwogs are all revealed from these tiny underground arenas. If the meter reader does not watch carefully, he may uncover a hornet's nest. Thus, most workers carry a medicine pouch within their toolkits. Meter reading routes are hard roads at first; but endurance soon builds up, as the man (or woman) becomes self-reliant. As he walks along, he strengthens his full character, all the way down to his stem cells. Striding along, his breathing becomes natural and he fin

Honor Idaho film sites

http://www.mtexpress.com/index2.php?ID=2005119953 With the Senate recently passing a bill, to create a fund to offer incentives to film movies and TV shows within the state, Idaho leaders could further bolster this opportunity by asking that our transportation department revisit Professor Tom Trusky 's innovative "Statewide Movie Signage Proposal." Expanding our already successful Idaho Highway Historical Marker program to include tributes to films made in Idaho could be next logical step in this popular program's evolution. To quote Professor Trusky from last year, "The tourist/publicity value of such signage is apparent—and locals might appreciate such knowledge, too, if they are unaware of their cinematic heritage. As well, given the recent interest in bringing film production to the state, such signage would not only be public acknowledgment of Idaho 's considerable contribution to the film industry but also serve as a reminder to contemporary filmmakers