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Frisson

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The wind nipped at her neck, whispering through her hair. It caressed her exposed wrists as it whipped by, and she shivered. Softly repeating her mantra, she tried to convince herself to be brave. The graveyard wasn’t that scary. The night wasn’t that dark. The trees weren’t that monstrous. Still, she tripped over her own feet as she wandered along. With the soft strums of a natural violin and the hushed pulse of her blood coursing in her ear, she squinted at her path. The tombstones breathed. The blindfold wrapped itself tighter. The claws leered at her.
“Don’t worry, it’s only me.”
She heard a voice, one of dry smoke and rushing streams. It seemed close, and she shivered.
The desert hidden by pursed lips begged for refuge. She blinked heavily. The roots multiplied before her eyes, and the maze of weeds tumbled over her toes. She was stuck in place.
“Don’t worry, it’s only me.”
She heard a voice, one of a screeching train and a sighing door. It breathed on her neck, and she shivered.
The wind returned, with a vengeance. It shackled her wrists, it ripped at her hair. Her fingers burrowed themselves beneath skin, her blood pooling under her nails and slicking her fingers.
“Don’t worry, it’s only me.”
She heard a voice, one of cracking whips and brushing hair. It was in her head, and she shivered.





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