At the stroke of midnight in late autumn – when the bitter, bone chilling wind of early winter progressed throughout – the forbidding darkness engulfed the nebulous, moonless atmosphere gradually as I strolled weak and weary through a meander trail of rustling leaves in the palely pastel shade of yellowish-brown towards my mother’s grave who expired a most horrid, ghastly way; she was slaughtered none other than by my own two hands. Needless to say, my intellect, while wandering down the winding, endless pathway, began to ponder – ponder about the consequences I should, yet did not face – and I undergone a series of bombarding questions still left unanswered; a test of my sanity… Rustling? Some soft commotions on the fallen leaves of gentle tapping… beating… and clicking… – similar to those I familiarized as suspicious, juvenile or effeminate human footsteps – somewhere alarmingly behind me, somewhere menacingly concealed, somewhere not far off. This dismaying presence of another was startling – but to some extent foreseen, as I paid no regards toward my surroundings – so I turned pivotally around swiftly scanning my vicinity, but bizarrely, there was absolutely, indubitably nothing to be found. I proceeded, yet halted once again by this ominous rustle beyond; this time, a sort of breeze drifted past warmly – as if someone, or something was adjacently exhaling their warmly cordial, yet sinister and blood-curdling on me – and I hastily veered only to my surprise, spotted a vague, yet familiar phantasm. Reasoning and judgment was dispersing; my natural somatic instinct to this apparition was to run – and I would have impetuously scurry my way out of there – but the spirit got an expeditious, vigorous grip onto my lower limb. Although hastily panicking with apprehension and trepidation, I glanced at the acquainted anonymous silhouette… she was my mother.