Night Music
“Mine was the last desk, the one closest to the graveyard. I spent years with my back to the darkness of it. I can remember how, as autumn neared its end, and winter gathered its strength, I would feel the wind begin to blow through the window frame and think that the chill of it was like the breath of the dead upon my neck.
One day, in the bleakness of January, when the light was already fading as the clock struck four, I glanced over my shoulder and saw a man staring back at me. Nobody else no...ticed him, only I. His skin was the gray of old ash long from the fire, and his eyes were as black as the ink in my well. His gums had receded from his teeth, giving him a lean, hungry aspect. His face was a mask of longing.
I was not frightened. It seems strange to say that, but it is the truth. I knew that he was dead, and the dead have no hold over us beyond whatever we ourselves surrender to them. His fingers touched the glass but left no trace, and then he was gone.
Years passed, but I never forgot him.MoreLess
One day, in the bleakness of January, when the light was already fading as the clock struck four, I glanced over my shoulder and saw a man staring back at me. Nobody else no...ticed him, only I. His skin was the gray of old ash long from the fire, and his eyes were as black as the ink in my well. His gums had receded from his teeth, giving him a lean, hungry aspect. His face was a mask of longing.
I was not frightened. It seems strange to say that, but it is the truth. I knew that he was dead, and the dead have no hold over us beyond whatever we ourselves surrender to them. His fingers touched the glass but left no trace, and then he was gone.
Years passed, but I never forgot him.MoreLess
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