By: Anna Dziuba

I was quite a feeble old man, the age of ninety four or so. Life seemed to me an elongated journey, my heart weak and my lungs beginning to develop into shrivelled sacs. Breathing became somewhat laborious and my limbs moved not with the dexterity they did when I was a healthy young lad. Numerous sicknesses overcame my body, manifestng themselves in my weary bones and aching muscles. I had been expecting death for some time by then, not as a gift or a curse, but as a necessary certainty, a closure. However, what was to come was to come. Human wishing unparalleled cannot change the course of fate.

Alone was I on that faithful night, so encumbered by the day's issues that I sat down to a book. How ironic was it that the book I happened to pick out by a random and uncalled for twist of fate was "Tales of War", a rather depressing and melancholy account of one soldier's partaking in World War I. To such extent did it amaze me that my countenance was similar than that of the book that I nearly dropped it. I presumed to do something else. The ink was still fresh and the quill rigid in my office, thus allowing me to write an account of the day's events. I entered it sullenly with drooped shoulders and sat at my desk. There, I began to write thoughts that at the time proceeded to fly by like hawks in my mind. 'Tis not an easy thing to put pen to paper as rapidly as thought comes to mind.

A storm was beginning to break out, lashing the ground with mighty golden whips of lightning. Night stars scattered the black sky like dust pellets and the wind whispered unto the window in front of me. More fiercely I began writing, attempting to distract myself from these horrors; from the noises and the rickety house being tossed about by the storm. My letters became stiff and sketchy, my hand pressing the paper so hard that it nearly punctured it. The storm drew close, and I could feel the presence of its angry wrath, those massive arms of thunder clapping overhead. 'Twas becoming chilly, and I pulled my jacket closer to my body.

"Oh, this unprofitable world!" I cried out. "Must it be this horrible? My damned bones ache from the rain and now this irritating thunder clashes--"

My ear grew keen, adjusting to the noise I heard. A single bump on the stairs was enough to rid me of my sanity. Another bump followed shortly. Then silence.

Then another bump.

Bump.

It wasn't ridiculous to indeed presume that as my fear-stricken body froze with the ice of paranoia, someone or something was going upstairs. And I was alone. Or at least I had thought so.

Bump.

'Twas growing louder. And louder. The footsteps approached, each one curdling my blood and then finally, I took it no longer. Within the blink of an eye, I grabbed a plank of wood that was lying beside my desk and hastily managed to run behind the door. Should the villain enter I would knock it over the head and quickly endeavour to contact the authorities.

The door openened and before any face or body was allowed to show itself, I bashed it on the head. You see, the fearful mind does not act on reason, but on sheer instinct. The form collided with the floor and created a thud, its head merging with the hard wood. A mad dash of relief surged through me as I realized that I no longer was threatened. He, or it, was a heap of a limp body under black robes. A hood covered its head and face, and I could not identify who it was. I must admit that the idea of peeking to see what was under that hood frightened me greatly, even up to the point where my knees wobbled like insubstantial jelly. The mass of the body was miniscule, the figure appeared very thin and frail, almost skeletal. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, but was technically a minute or two, examining it. I had bashed it on the head pretty good, my feeble bones showing ferocity under pressure and fear. Even an old man is capable of odd actions not usually pertaining to him when he is forced to do so.

I doubted the figure would rise, but the time soon came, for no longer could I just stand and gaze at it, to peek under the hood. Slowly, I moved my trembling hands toward it. Millimetre by millimetre, I started to pull back the hood, my eyes barely open, my heart banging against my ribcage like a wild animal. A fragment of what looked like a white skull appeared, and aghast I almost flew backward. But I kept my ground, and, striving not to faint or fall over, I removed the entire hood in one quick pull. What lay there shocked me beyond my wildest dreams. A skull, completely devoid of flesh or any other organs for that matter, lay on the hood. And te body--oh what a sight! I had been right to call it skeletal, for that it literally was. Bones, and no more.

I began to feel dizzy with the attacks of insanity, threatening to overtake me. The sight. The sight was too dreadful to behold. I hoped only to close my eyes and forever blind myself to the sight. The skeleton.

Death, lying dead on my floor.

How ironic.