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My soft steps seem amplified by the dark night as I hesitantly walk down the frozen streets.
The dog, indifferent to my caution, happily pants next to me, occasionally lifting his snout to the crisp winter air.
Our path is lit by nothing except a flickering lamp light, as even the moon and stars have hidden behind the darkness, afraid of what may emerge.
The trees, leaves already stolen by the ripeness of the year, bend and sway grimly with the harsh wind and heavy snow layered on their outstretched limbs, their fingers beckoning me into the dark wood.
The single dying flame casts eerie shadows across the threatening trees and onto the ashen pavement, seeming more like looming specters than the comforting shapes they take at dawn.
The darkness transforms everything, I think as the shrieking wind slices through the pregnant silence and penetrates my warm winter coat. The houses, once filled with glowing fires and giggling children, now are hideouts for mephistophelian beasts that watch you from the shaded windows. Now behind every bush or tree awaits a divine surprise, colored charcoal by the night’s skillful fingers.
The night is so different than it’s sister, I muse as I pull the dog to keep up, afraid of what will happen if our pace slows.
The blackness of the night, the symbol of death and despair, contradicts so greatly with the bliss and contentment of the day.
I am not a child afraid of the Boogieman, and yet still I shutter at the thought of being alone at night.
For although I know no monster will disrupt me from my nightly walks, my mind, so rational in the light of day, now seems to transform all things surrounding me into savage beasts hungry for my soul.
It it not be rational ( my utter fear of the dark) I scold myself as I walk past the thick woods with daunting shadows mirroring my stroll.
But it is completely, horrifyingly real.