I’ve been diagnosed before, over and over again, tested for months by countless “sleep experts,” and still I insist that I don’t have somniphobia. Or hypnophobia. Whatever you want to call it, I don’t have it! What does it matter that all the symptoms are there? My heart beats faster and starts to ache a little as the sun drops out of sight, I won’t deny that. And, sure, my damp sheets are proof a cold sweat visits my every night like the ghost of Jacob Marley, even though I keep the room temperature at a tepid seventy-seven degrees. A tremendous headache hits as soon as my head touches the pillow, my limbs feel as though they’re bound at the nerves, and I’m almost delirious with nausea when I lay on my back…Any psychotherapist who knows his naps would probably diagnose me in a heartbeat with hypnophobia. Or somniphobia, whatever.
But I’m not afraid of falling asleep, no; I’m afraid what I might wake up to.
My acute restlessness started about a year ago, in Edinburgh, Scotland. Snow nearly drowned London, which hadn’t seen the stuff in years, and didn’t have near enough plows prepared to keep all levels of traffic, car or otherwise, from grinding to a standstill. Thank goodness I was a light sleeper even before my so-called “somniphobia”; I was already on my way to Wales on the earliest train out before sleet could freeze the tracks or do whatever sleet does that backs up a railway schedule.
Following a brief stay above a tea shop in Wales, above a pub in Manchester, and above a church in Glasgow, I was on my way to Edinburgh, the last stop in my journey – my “end of semester” traveling celebration. Not that studying abroad in London was much of a toil; three classes of minimal workloads was certainly underwhelming and I spent most of my time indulging in new friend and new draughts. I was sad, coming to terms with the fact my time in the UK was coming to and end, and so I decided to firmly plant a stamp on this little trip, one that would truly mark it as the coming of my age of adulthood. When I returned home, I would seize ambition with a greater fervency than I had coming out here for the first time. After all, college would be over in a little over a year; it was time to commit to making headway.
While visiting Edinburgh Castle, I gained enough altitude to see out over the whole of the city – and noticed that there was a vantage point higher still. That was the famed “Arthur’s Seat,” rumored to be the foundation of Camelot and all the glory King Arthur and his loyal knights brought to its peak. Now a massive dormant volcano that had long since folded over itself and appeared to be little more than an overgrown hill covered in brown grass and dark shrubbery, it still beckoned an easy climb with its layered slope towering over even the ferris wheel at the Christmas Market. I inquired of one of the staff if the trek was worth it, to which I was told, “No, not really. You ever been hiking before? That’s kinda what you get. Well…except maybe tonight. I think the meteor shower’s supposed to happen tonight.”
A meteor shower, one that frequents Edinburgh this day every year – What luck! I knew such a heavenly sight would be the perfect way to memorialize this trip as a revolution of the spirit, and so I had to witness it as clearly as possible – the only way to do that was to make the hike up Arthur’s Seat. My eyes needed leverage over the lights of the city.
And so, after a hearty meal, I wandered my way between green-lit apartments and townhomes until I found myself on the winding road leading to the national park. I was surprised by all the buildings I passed along the way, odd hybrids of modern and traditional, gated pseudo-castles isolated from the vibrant muck below in the main town. I was so entranced by one of the conference buildings and its thatched awning over an abstract marble fountain, that I did not notice just how late it was getting…or just how dark.
“Can I help you?” crackled a pock-faced old lady in puffer jacket as she slurped noisily on her coffee and scrutinized my shivering arrival at the national park entrance. I told her of my designs, and she grimaced a little before shrugging off whatever was coming to mind. It was the end of the day, and her shift was five minutes from ending; no use wasting it getting all worried over some youngster tourist wanting to live on the edge…At least, I’d wager that was her thought process. She simply warned me that it was getting dark, followed me outside, and locked the door behind her. Sometimes, disinterest is the most dangerous warning, but one has to be attentive to sense the danger. I was too cold, and eager to see the meteor shower on time. Otherwise, I might have questioned the woman’s fearful look up at the mountain as she hurried away, pulling her hood over her dried wistful hair, abnormally grey for her age.
My hike began without a hitch, as hikes usually do since one begins with all the determination and energy in the world. The slope of Arthur’s Seat, in fact, seemed to suggest an easygoing pace; the angle was not so intimidating a venture, and the most treacherous part had to be the uneven ground and abrupt chunks of earth missing at either side of the path. One false step, and you could easily tumble down the side of the hill, a fate less dangerous at the beginning but promising a messy death on the rocks below the further up you climb. I had begun to sweat under my layers of warm clothing midway up the mountain, regardless of the drizzle that had begun to cloud my view. My umbrella was useless protection, for the wind pummeled me and promised to turn my umbrella inside-out if I chose to lean on it. But I was not about to let some wet wind faze me; it filled my breath with lungs, cooled my skin, and focused the energy within to continue propelling me onwards and upwards.
There is something about focus and directive that borders on the obsessive; no matter what obstacle arises, your momentum will not budge. For example, if I was not so desiring of a perfectly ethereal end to a spiritual journey, perhaps I would have double-checked to make sure the meteor shower would occur that night. But I wanted to believe it, and so I cast the dice in my own ignorance. I might have also checked the weather as well, but, knowing it would drizzle, I did not consider it might change in an instant to something much worse. And drizzle would not stop tourists as determined as myself; yet, not one soul was climbing up or down the mountain other than myself. Lastly, and most important, I would have recalled that a National Park is meant to preserve the natural state of its charge. That means, minimal human interference in every way. Even safety.
When I huffed and puffed ecstatically to the second peak, which was lower than the the highest but still high enough for the perfect view, my heart dropped. Fog had descended upon Edinburgh during my ascent, and I could only just make out the warm lights piercing through the mist in the valley. I snapped a few underwhelming photos, not worth the effort made to get them. It was still a more beautiful comprehensive view of the city than from any tower at Edinburgh castle, but there would be no way to watch the meteor shower through a fog, higher vantage point or not. Regardless, I decided to scale the higher peak, and see if that afforded me better luck.
I reached the peak, and knew my hopes were a gambler’s lost wages. The entire city was blanketed in fog, and the lights were barely visible. So much for ending my travels on a heavenly note, befitting the holiday season. As I turned around to descend for warmer quarters, two realizations doused me in a cold sweat – the first of a daily occurrence from here on out. First, the drizzle had just hardened into hail, and the wind was whipping those icy chunks round sharp as ever. Second, and worst of all, the national park attendant’s warning that it was getting dark was not so much a warning for the night’s fast approach. No, it was a warning that Arthur’s Seat had no light sources to illuminate the path downhill. Now night was here, and so was a mist unearthly in its thick fluidity, and it was impossible to watch out for the possible falls I could take if I continued down the mountain.
I considered finding a bush of some kind, or even a small hole, to hole up in until at least the sleet stopped. Better to be safe and uncomfortable, than to risk my life for the warmth of a bed. I considered my situation, and had come to terms with my situation, until I turned around to look over the edge of the mountain and felt my gut drop off the cliff’s face as I saw my situation change before my very eyes.
The lights of the city were gone. Edinburgh had vanished, engulfed by swirling, mossy mists that gleamed greenish in the black void, tumbling one over the other like clouds weighed down with lost spirits. I had never seen such a fog, the smoke of some ethereal electrical energy that trickled through the mists and burned the very particles of the air as it snaked itself through the valley and frothed around the threshold of Arthur’s Seat. I was seized with irrational panic…What if the city really did vanish, or I was transported to some other dimension, and the sun would never rise again? I had to find my way off Arthur’s Seat, and know for certain tat Edinburgh was still waiting for me at the bottom.
I shuffled my way down the top of the first peak fairly easily. There were not many holes to watch out for, I remember, and the electrified mist provided a bit of visibility now and then when its lightning snaked through the ashen dark. If it was this clear, even with nature working against me, surely I could make it down the mountain safe and soundly!
I remember the courage brought on by this assessment, right before a light pulsed steadily behind me. It was an earthy green, not unlike the lightning from the mists, but it held its energy close and did not seem to fade away. Was it the meteor shower? In the midst of all this danger, was there a silver lining to behold? Well, then, of course I was going to behold it – I made my way back towards the second peak, where I first beheld Edinburgh in all its definite existence. Who cares about this nature’s freak upheaval, if I could at least accomplish what I set out to do? I had to watch the meteor shower; the entirety of my season in the UK depended on the wonder of that period in the story.
I realized far off that the glow was not from any meteors in the sky, but curiosity and the unwillingness to turn back kept me going forward. That, and some other force…I know not what, but it was definitely a pull, a gravity that made my heart feel heavy and my chest full with fluid. As I drew nearer still, I could make out figures in greenish blackness of the night. They were moving away from me towards the mist, which now seemed to roll up and over the face of the cliff towards me. I counted them out – seventeen shambling figures, dragged forward through the dark as if called by an outward force not unlike the kind that now had a hold on me – and wondered how I was able to make them out so clearly. The glow I had mistaken for the meteors seemed to come from within them, gleaming along their bodies along abnormal points and joints that jutted from their humanly misshapen frames. Their veins were filled with that light, pulsing with a quiet strength that writhed underneath their hefty meat, which sagged limply as if the energy inside it was unwilling to spare any to move the body in a dignified manner. Perhaps they were Brocken spectres, a trick of the light cast by that strange lightning afar? But they did not vanish, no matter my vantage point, and I concluded they were matter as I was.
With perhaps the worst judgment in the world, I called out to them.
All seventeen figures halted in their tracks immediately, as if they were joined by one mind. There was a moment of silence, the energy of electricity pulsating through the air, the rolling fog now passing me and descending down Arthur’s Seat as if it planned to encompass the whole country. I waited for a response, and steeled my courage; if this was some ghostly presence, some group of phantoms, or even a bad dream, I knew that fear would be my downfall. I had to stand firm, unafraid; this was the start of my revolution, and I was a man who wouldn’t be fazed by apparitions!
My courage crumbled when they suddenly started towards me. Their pace multiplied tenfold, and, while one might mistake them for humans upon first seeing their slow gait, their sprint proved they are anything but, writhing about limply, limbs flailing as they shambled backwards. I say backwards, because they didn’t even turn after I stopped them! Changing direction without changing focus, the figures flew towards me in a disjointed, seizing frenzy. I panicked, and fled down the mountain at breakneck speed without any regard for possibly breaking my neck. I could feel them, or, rather their intent. I can not, to this day, explain why…Perhaps we were connected by that otherworldly fog? But I could feel that they wanted me, that I know without a doubt. They were empty, for some reason, and they thought I could fill them.
I sprinted down the side of the mountain, my ankles wincing in pain with every leap as the uneven ground ground my joints against each other and threatened to take my feet out from under me. I looked everywhere for some bush or cave; this time, not as shelter from the hail, which pounded even harder against my back now, but as shelter from these spirits that seemed hellbent on acquiring me. I turned around to see if I had gained any distance on my pursuers, only to see them writhing and twisting about, arms outstretched, gaining distance instead! They were now close enough that the wind carried the sounds of their voices, murmuring some broken phrases in a forgotten language, muddled with the clanking and creaking of rusted metal. They were hulking figures, towering over me, and clearly human in shape, but still their limbs and torsos moved as if they hadn’t a bone in their body!
I yelled with adrenaline and pure fright and ran faster than my body could physically handle. Where was the bottom? Why was I not at the bottom yet? This sprint seemed endless, and I should have reached the bottom ten minutes ago! My body was losing power, my mind was losing power, I needed to know I had gained some traction.
I had given up trying to see where I was going, or bracing my legs for the uneven ground – but that ground had grown slippery, wet, and treacherous. Naturally, I slipped and tumbled forward. I hit the ground hard, and kept rolling, over and over again, smashing my face into gravel, bursting through prickly shrubberies. But I withstood, if only to know I was outpacing the demons behind me. I landed flat on my chest, all wind knocked out of me, wheezing with no hope of catching my breath. Surely, I thought, I had reached the flat ground at the foot of Arthur’s Seat. Shakily, I rose to my feet, and dared to look behind me to make sure I was no longer being pursued. It was perhaps the last time in my life, I think, that I have ever felt the impulse of courage.
Fog. That was what I saw. An endless sea of that mossy green fog, a terrifying endless sea heaving and crashing where Edinburgh should have been. I had run for miles downhill, rolled and bruised my face on half of those miles and, somehow, against all reasoning and natural explanation, ended up back at the top of second-highest highest peak on Arthur’s Seat. I was back where I started this nightmare, back where I first saw those seventeen spirits. And I was too worn to go forward again.
I heard them before they reappeared. The clanking of the metal on their limbs was louder now, I could almost be convinced it resounded in my head. I glanced down towards the second peak below, eyes straining through the hailstorm, and I could just make out the figures, back where they started as well. At least, I thought for a moment with relief, almost free of fear under the influence of pure shock and the adrenaline pounding out from inside my temples, they aren’t in any hurry to grab me this instant.
Then, it began…that low ominous drone, that Latin chant that haunts me in my every waking witless moment. I wish I could describe it, translate it, but my processing faculties wither with dread every time those twelve notes rumble my matter to its core. Like a steamship hidden in the fog, leaving no wake but you can hear it’s there by the constant foghorn in the distance. The chanting was here, and I knew it came from the spirits below. But it didn’t come from them. Rather, it was borne forth from whatever misery they felt, and the mists about us reverberated the sense of their anguish. They raised their heavy, limp arms towards me, almost in a manner of praise. And I became aware of a presence that was not on that hill before.
Behind them, the cold mouth of its opening facing away from the edge of the cliff, was a sepulchre. It was simple, crumbling, and I could just make out an inscription in some inhumanly ancient language along its crown. Like the maw of a dragon, smoke pouring out from its gullet, so did the mossy green mists roll forth from within the sepulchre – It was alive, I could feel that as strongly as I felt those spirits still beckoning to me near its entrance. But my observations gave me time to catch my breath, gather my wits – I took a step backwards, ready to run for my life yet again.
I tripped and fell. At first my heart nearly dissolved on its own, for I thought I had careened off the edge of Arthur’s Seat to my certain death miles below. But I managed to glance upwards as I went backwards, and caught a stone lip inscribed with foreign symbols hanging above me – the mouth of the sepulchre. Somehow, it had appeared behind me, as if to catch me in its net before I could flee. I understand now that the fog was not only its work, but its domain; surely it could be wherever it liked in that space. Then, however, all I could do was gasp in surprise as I bit the dirt once again and beat my ribs against the ground for a few seconds until the ground leveled out. I heaved myself up, weak and wondering when this night would end. A green light gave me cause to squint, too accustomed to peering through the sleet and fog by now were my eyes, and I discovered I was not alone.
The cave of the sepulchre was just that: a cave. Nothing more or less. My vision was blurred, but I could make out nothing that would make sense of my situation. In the center of that unremarkable earthly-looking cave was a small fire, one that seemed to spark green lightning instead of flames, and from whence the green mists billowed out. And, looming in a circle around that fire were my pursuers, now clearly defined and yet not at all. My first guess was that they were some of King Arthur’s wayward knights from folklore, burdened as they were in hulking armor and massive weaponry – heaps of crusted iron draped over fleshless frames. As they moved, opening up a pathway to the flame for me, I also noticed vines writhing across their bones like ligaments, from the flats of their feet to their hollow eyes. It was impossible to tell if those roots clung to the knightly skeletons like chains binding them to the Earth, or if they had been summoned forth from below to guide them, like the strings of a marionette. They moved together, seamlessly, as bone and branch beckoned to me to approach the flame.
What did they want from me? All I sought was the proper end to my journey, and now I was expected to appease the unheard whims of ancient spirits. I was dismayed at what would happen if I let them down, and could foresee doing nothing else since I knew not what they expected of me. Perhaps, when I reconsider my options in these brief sane moments of the present, I might have been better off doing nothing at all; stalling them, until they grew frustrated as I refused to play their game and refused to let me be part of whatever hidden exploit they concocted in the afterlife. Truly, I’m not even certain they came from such a place, for nothing about that sepulchre or its spirits seemed like they belonged the haunting of Scottish moors; their cloaks were covered in alphabets I’d never seen before, and their bones suggested they once supported bodies that were hulking, misshapen – their teeth, especially, were too many and too jagged.
At this point, however, I was caught up in the spell. What could they want with me, I wondered? To be part of this spiritual custom, would it be something that would further change my life forever, more than simply determining to do more as I became an adult (do not ask me how, I was delirious)? Would I be given a mission, a gift, knowledge that would make my terrifying time on Arthur’s Mount worth the terror? I don’t even think reasoning it would have changed the force that swelled in my heart, calling me forward in a trance. All the while, that Latin chant continued, rattling and rumbling from the bones of the decayed knight watch. I passed their ranks, my eyes warmed by the crackling fire floating inches off the ground. There were etchings in the dirt beneath it, but, again, a language I could not read. So why bother? Another warning I did not heed. I extended my hand toward the flame, as if coaxing a wild animal to be tame – though surely I was the one being coaxed. My fingers were about to caress it, unafraid of being burned or electrocuted after all the fear I expended tonight, when a spark of lightning struck out from the flire and jolted my finger.
And, in that jolt, perhaps the fire lost stability, or just used all its energy…either way, it burned totally and completely out, dissipating from existence like it was mere mist itself.
I was confused, at first, I didn’t know what to think. It took a while for my heart to start pounding again, for fear to find its way back into my mind – for, though the fire had disappeared, I was still deep down in the bowels of that sepulchre. I might have panicked if I was surrounded by darkness, but I was not. No, I was surrounded by those hollow knights, the green glow still pumping its ectoplasm through the roots that moved them – And I did not panic, but froze from my feet to my brain. The knights were still, encircling meand their hymn had ceased. I could feel no animosity, but that same nagging warning from when they had chased me crept back into my memory, and reminded itself that it was not yet past.
They still wanted me.
My whole body snapped back as I felt something cold and hard grab my arm with tremendous force, and I tumbled to the ground. It did not let go, try as I pried it, when I realized that it was a piece of their armor that latched onto me. And there was no way it was letting go.
The hymn resumed, and another piece of armor slammed into my back. The knights were shedding the last remnant of their skin, the shell that had defined them, I was assaulted on all sides by those scales falling from their souls. Each piece that fell flew towards me like an attracted magnet, sealing up a part of me that was not yet covered in cold inescapable iron. I tried to push past the spirits, but the roots that held them up had weaved them together, and there was no opening. My legs were joined together by a new piece, and I fell to the ground – I clawed desperately, and my hands were encased – I tried to wriggle away, and my back was fastened straight – I screamed, and my mouth was clamped shut. There was no escape.
My ears had been covered as well, but I realized that the hymn had stopped. I opened my eyes, carefully, wondering if the assault had stopped; my body was so sore, so numb, I couldn’t feel anything. But I could still see, and was seized with a grateful pang of relief as the spirits were not there to greet me. And there! A light in the distance…The mouth of the sepulchre, admitting the first light of the morning sun! I almost cried from the feeling of relief, and, for what seemed like the thousandth time the past twelve hours, heaved myself off the ground.
At least, my mind heaved itself off the ground. Then I realized that my body wasn’t obeying. I tried again and again and again, wondering why my body wouldn’t listen to me – Then my sense of feeling returned. An overwhelming steely cold hugged my body, like an iron maiden custom-built for me alone. The armor of the knights did not disappear with them, but remained behind as my own unwanted casket. I nearly fainted right then and there, but I had to escape before night returned, and brought the spirits of the mist with it! You can imagine, it was hopeless…I struggled and yelled, but the armor clung to me so closely that I hadn’t enough room to even let air pass through. Only my eyes remained unsealed, and I glanced with tears in them up at the open sepulchre. There it was, my last hope for freedom, fading away like a shadow in the sun, and soon the entire cave was filled with nothing but the husk that imprisoned me, and darkness.
I startled awake from my bed at the hotel in a cold sweat, grasping my arms instinctively to make sure I was no longer bound in my iron coffin. But of course I was free; does a dream carry over into reality, except in the form of neuroses and heart palpitations? The events of the night before were nothing more than the imagination, a raw bit of haggis stewing a bit too long in my gut overnight – That’s all. The funniest thing was, in a “ha-ha, that’s unsettling” spirit of humor: I had no recollection of ever making my way back down Arthur’s Mount. Not a clue. Did I see the meteor shower? Did I really get caught in a hailstorm? Did I even make the climb up to either peak at all? But I dared not give it another try, even if I never left my room that night. I wouldn’t go see the lady at the park entrance, I wouldn’t even inquire from the staff member at Edinburgh castle who first pointed me towards that treacherously unsuspecting slope. No, I would quietly take my train back to London, and that would be the end of my memorable stay in Scotland. And, likewise, the end of my tale of highland wraiths and eldritch mists.
You should remember, though, that I don’t have a fear of ghosts; I have somniphobia. Or hypnophobia, whatever, not like knowing would save me at this point. And, what, you think I fear a recurring nightmare of what might or might not have transpired that night? I have never been so weak as that, give me some credit for recounting my experience to you with as much presence of mind as a madman can find.
I first sensed something was wrong on the train ride home. No matter how hard I puzzled over the event, I could not draw the line when reality crossed over into nightmare. At what point did I lose consciousness yesterday, and when did the dream take over? The line was beyond me to draw, and I settled down to take a nap. That, too, was beyond me; no pills or lulling music could put me to sleep, as if my body knew it was not its time. I chalked it up to my racing thoughts, and contented myself with staring out the window. I could at least enjoy the stretch of the countryside, unclouded by mists or even a light haze. The snow had loosened its icy restraints on London, and I returned to the warmth of my university flat without trouble. I celebrated with my flatmates, drowned my worries in vodka and whiskey, and finally returned to my dorm for a deep drunken sleep.
I woke up, completely sober, no hangover. At first I thought it was morning, but no streetlamps were on, and I couldn’t hear the coo of doves that frequented the courtyard outside. I decided, since I was up, might as well get an early start on the morning and make myself a cup of tea with some cream of wheat. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll do that. Yeah…
I told myself over and over, but my body would not budge. I could feel my muscles twitching as though they heard the brain and were doing their darnedest, but something was holding them back. Was it sleep paralysis? Can one go through such trauma in their dreams, to the point that they develop symptoms like sleep paralysis? I laughed to myself, half-hoping to shake myself out of it, when I felt the hot air from my mouth blow straight up my nose as if it were also blocked by something. The laugh was muffled.
And, the final nail in the coffin, I felt that familiar embrace of cold steel all over my helpless body.
I wish someone was there to pinch me, to snap me out of it. Hours I lay there, like the mummy of the tin-man, shrieking to the end of time for someone to pour oil on his joints. But who was there to hear? I doubted we were on the mountain, for the sepulchre seemed attached to a dimension outside of ours, where the mists breed their own twisted form of life – and its mouth was still closed. Where was I, then?
Pointless, worrying about that, when my body was entombed in metal three-inches thick. All wondering about the mysteries of my circumstances and how to escape did was distract me from the fact that I would never be able to escape this coffin unless the knights returned to free me from some slight guilt on their part. For what seemed like hours, I screamed and struggled, hoping to find some way to bend the iron, some reason to give me a small hope of escape. But there was none, and, just like on the train, I was unable to sleep – regardless how tired I was getting, straining in vain against the tight walls of my casket.
Then, I awoke again, after what seemed like an endless night bound in the void questioning whether I actually would wake again or not. That first morning…I remember it vividly. I was bewildered, shocked into not speaking with anyone for hours – What was the meaning of this dream’s continuation? I still had the hopes it would pass as a rebellious phase my sleepstate was exercising at the dawn of my own self-revolution, but then it happened yet again that night, and the next, and each subsequent night thereafter – there was no escaping my fate come the nighttime. Paranoia struck me to my very character, I hardly speak anymore, so used to my mouth clasped shut in the lonesomeness of a tomb, my body has slowed as if it calls my brain’s plans for movement futile, and I feel so very, very cold, all the the time. Iron, steel, cold metal burns my skin to the touch, or creates such an effect in my head that I recoil at the slightest contact. And, the icing on the cake, I now have developed that somniphobia we spoke of.
For it is not the impending nightmare that I fear, or its meaning, no. It is the remembrance of that night, how lines between realities were blurred, that has placed a halt on my life and driven me to become a static shell of what I once was. I no longer know if I merely lost track of time, or if I truly was bound by the sepulchre that night; two roads diverged in a mist, yet my vision is so impaired I know not which I took. This madness that has beset me over which one – Which path did I take? Am I still in the open air, wasting my mind away in fearful obsession? Or am I a living corpse, imprisoned eternally in some alien dimension by spirits who meant me no ill will, but were trying to fill some hole in their own existence – and so filled it with me. The hours tick, tick on, and they seem so real on either side. I cannot tell!
But then six months ago, I heard them again. The knights and their low, Latin drone, yawning to life in full power at the height of a whisper, somewhere far off in the dirt beyond the sepulchre. Every night they draw closer still, the drone grows louder and tonight I am certain: they will be here. They will stand over my iron casket. They will lift up their heavy, limp hands. And they will either liberate me, to let my soul depart for the waking world and reality in the sun, or they will bind even my own spirit there, and I will come to know that I never left the sepulchre that cursed night. I will come to know it, and it will come so suddenly, and I am not ready at all! But now: I see the light fading. I hear the chant beginning.
The open sepulchre calls me now. After a year of terror, I will retake my future tomorrow. Only tomorrow will I see if I still truly have one – if another sunrise shows me life beyond that tomb. Or if I am condemned to an eternity in the dark.
At least I’ll finally stop wondering which.
Morning's Early Dark 