Across the Road

"I was once roused from slumber to the lamentation and shrill outcry of the universe before me. Thereafter, sleep embraced me anew; and in that twilight reverie, I beheld a thing- a being imbued with breath... a thing beyond my reason, beyond articulation!"

Truth is, no one had ever wanted to set foot in the yard of that old church. And really, who in their right mind would? That Gothic pile had grown decrepit with age, ready to crumble any day now-I'd heard word it was to be torn down before winter. Ninety-one years stood behind that stone, and the trees around it had long since shed their pride-just brittle black branches now, no green, no life. The bark turned grey, stripped of all color, tangled and worn like the faces of those long since buried. Not even the birds gave it their courtesy. They kept away-no chirp, no rustle. Just silence, and something old.

So I think it fair, sir, if I say my fear of even looking toward that chapel-yes, even a glance-was reasonable.

But someone kept coming back. Someone always did.

As I said: the trees remained, dry-boned and crooked. Around them, and wrapping some eighty percent of that cursed structure, the grass had grown wild-untended, untouched. Tall weeds and windblown flowers stretched out like the broken hair of a sleeping giant. It gave the yard a look of neglect that bordered on the deliberate.

No one wanted to care for the place.

But me? I kept seeing this someone-sometimes daily, sometimes not-standing there, still as a statue for hours, and then... gone. Every day, damn near. Every day.

It's not that I disliked it, no. At first I thought nothing of it. But always, always, when he came, this weight would press down on my heart like a name forgotten. A whisper would stir in my blood. And just before it vanished, I'd see a shimmer-like gold-like something in a fever dream bubbling up through my nerves.

And I swear to you, the thing-this person-was cursed.

Stare too long, and you'd see him rot. Slowly. Not quite alive. Not quite dying. Just stuck in some unholy pause, where even decay loses its patience.

The sight made me ill. I went through bottles of laudanum and peppermint oil just to keep from retching. I had to stop looking.

But then-one noonday-I saw him again.

It was just after I threw open the window on the third floor of my studio. I hadn't even struck my pipe yet. And there he was-moving along the sidewalk. Passing the row of wagons, crossing the street, weaving between the souls of the living like some corpse escaped from a hospital window. His eyes-oh, God-those sunken things, as hollow as hell's gate...

That day, I fetched Miss Coatta. Needed her to see him too. Needed someone to share the terror or I'd go mad with it.

"Cossy," I said, "Come here a moment."

She did. And as soon as she saw what I saw, she went pale.

"That's the one?" she whispered. "He's worse than I imagined..."

"You think so?"

"But-"

"But what?"

She looked again, breath caught in her chest. "Doesn't he usually... stare at the church?"

"He does."

"...Then why is he looking at us, Mr. Masson?"

I paused. I looked. And there he was-half a face gone, one eye hollow, the other bleeding golden tears. His skin, all pale and ruptured. His hands-ruined-fingers missing save one thumb. I couldn't breathe. I shut the window hard.

And yet, just once more, I peeked through the glass.

He was still there. Watching us.

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