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By
David Calvert
The moon hung near its zenith in a star strewn winter’s sky.
An aureole encompassed it as slowly, by and by, a stranger
Came upon the scene and with unlawful intent, strode up the
Craggy hillside on his destination bent.
The brassy tones of the old church clock tolled out against the
Night and swept across the valley on their distant, wingless flight.
Few thoughts of his surroundings invaded the vagrants mind,
Nor warning of his destiny as on the church bell chimed.
With a gentle thrust of his shoulder and a turn of the iron ring
The door submitted, surprisingly, and allowed the intruder in.
A cold, dank smell assailed him, an odour of decay, as he stepped
Beyond the threshold into a world of yesteryears.
The cracks around the window screen let in the lunar light, as along a
Sombre corridor he walked that fateful night.
To gaze upon the outside world he paused, but for a moment, and watched
A solitary cloud distort, as though in physical torment.
A nebulous mist began to rise, and glowed with an inner light, that
Froze the blood within his veins and turned him ashen white.
The space between them diminished as on the spectre did glide,
But for its hapless victim all motion was denied.