by Will Stinson
Those who write of “dark and stormy nights” do not know terror
Terror is not in bluster
Terror is not in howling gale
It is not in cacophonous downpour, rivulets of water snaking along your window
It is not the icy peaks, or the abyssal depths. It is not lakes of fire, or streams of tears. It is not raven call, or rotted, twitching corpse.
No, those are far too natural, and we are creatures of nature.
Terror is a shadow that whispers words your mind cannot contain as you walk by
It is when your hair stands on end, and you feel an unseen gaze upon you
It is the figure you see when you close your eyes, knowing that nothing is there
Terror thrives when something is WRONG
when you feel your soul grow cold despite the heated room
when logic and shape twist and warp in ways too deep for human minds to ponder
That is terror.
Terror is that which is unknown and unknowable, but approaching.
It is its own harbinger.
It comes, and you can do naught but wait and hope that it will not notice you
Or if it does, that the end will come quickly.
For terror regards us, and it is not pleased