This is a short story i started last night. Just a start. Have to finish it. Maybe sometime.
He lit a cigarette and slowly sank down into his chair. The lights were turned dim, almost off, so the room was dark. ‘I like the dark’ he thought to himself, ‘ I like the dark because then I can see the past, ghosts, only ghosts, but more or less real’. He stared intently at the fire tamed b/w his finger tips. He stared almost as to command it. It was at his mercy. To do his bidding. He felt awash by power over nature. And then the ghosts came.
The music slowly settled over the room, like a fog. The fog that blanketed the ghosts; Vague, hazy images, just at his finger tips. If he reached far enough, he could almost touch them. Evaporating into a mist if he reached too far. Leaving his heart heavy, like weighed down to the bottom of the ocean with lead. A prisoner convicted of the dying by drowning, content and at peace with his fate. There was no struggle, no pain, no regret, only naked truth.
They always went gentle on him, the ghosts, always. Cloying him. Slowly drawing him in, like a virgin on her marital bed. He never got used to it. He never saw; they’re seducing him, laying down bread crumbs to follow.
Slowly he succumbed to them, the red glow of the cigarette flickering at his finger tips.
‘The music’ He quietly thought, ‘Its always the music that brings them back from the depths. Raising them to its sweet song’