A Midnight Shadow (standard:horror, 1744 words)
Author: Chris Herzig	Added: Aug 09 2001	Views/Reads: 3992/2389	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
When you think your alone in the woods, your not.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

speculation of sorcery the townspeople invaded his home to behead him. 
Upon his orders, his servants barricaded the doors and lit the house 
ablaze to force the perpetrators to spend eternity enslaved in hell. 

Vincent’s name was marked clearly on the gravestone. Donald continued to
dig up the grave with amazing haste. Roughly three feet into the ground 
the shovel met the soil with an amazing thud. His arms started to shake 
more from excitement then fatigue. He crouched down wiping the mud away 
from the site. “I knew you’d show yourself” he muttered at the freshly 
uncovered coffin. Retrieving a crowbar from his bag, he wrestled the 
lid open exposing charred flesh, which had not taken a breath in over a 
century. Hopping out of the hole, he reached for his camera when the 
sound of a twig snapped thirty yards from where he was. 

He quickly turned shining the light in the direction of the sound
revealing nothing but his own shadow. The wind picked up again blowing 
an eerie feeling into his bones. He turned back to the corpse that 
appeared in magnificent condition for having been burned alive a 
hundred years ago. Looking down he noticed prints in the mud. Upon 
further investigation, he noticed one came across the pile of removed 
dirt. The footprint had been made after he arrived there. Pointing the 
light down he followed the prints into the pine tree section, which 
then left tracks in the snow. 

Circling the tree, he pursued the prints to where they abruptly ended.
Right in front of the corpse. He nervously jumped into the hole and 
grabbed the dead foot. Fresh snow had packed tightly under its foot. He 
ran his fingers through his own hair watching his shadow mimic his 
actions. Looking up, the moon was buried in what appeared to be storm 
clouds. He switched his attention back to his shadow. Only now did his 
hands begin to tremble. Not in excitement, nor in fatigue, even as a 
result of the cold weather. This time it was due to fear. There was the 
fact that all evidence led to the dead body walking silently all on its 
own, and then there was what he had just realized. How does a man 
produce a shadow with no source of light behind him? 

Unexpectedly his shadow moved without a movement from Donald’s body. It
darted across the land making no noise detectable to human ears. A cry 
swelled in his throat. He stumbled up the muddy embankment that he dug. 
Reaching his feet, he began to run the two-mile trail back to his car. 
In his haste he tripped and fell over his bag landing in the muddied 
uncut grass. The flashlight flew out of his hand crashing into the 
frozen ground of the trees. The light died on impact hiding the terrain 
in darkness. Using memory alone, he swiftly scampered in the direction 
he had come from. 

As he dashed between rows of pine trees, he could not decipher where he
needed to turn. Running as fast as his body would take him, he heard a 
loud yet muffled whisper behind him. “I spy a sorcerer” the voice said. 
He rounded another row of pine trees, which led to an opening that 
appeared to lead to an old house perched atop a small hillside. His 
legs began to ache as he made his way up the hill. The voices grew 
louder behind him. He pushed himself at full speed as he reached the 
porch. In one swift motion, he opened the door lunging inside. Turning 
around he slammed the door shut behind him and spun the dead bolt. 

A flicker of light emanated from a corner of the room where a single
candle stood atop a small table. Dust and cobwebs ornamented every 
corner of the room. “Somebody help me” he screamed. He ran to the 
staircase that lay adjacent to the front door. “Somebody help me” he 
shrieked again. A rustling appeared from what Donald guessed was one of 
the bedrooms. “Thank God” he muttered under his heavy breathing. The 
creaking of the old floorboards echoed throughout the house. He dropped 
to his knees in joyous relief. “I’m down here,” he yelled. He dropped 
his head into his hands and began weeping. 

The first thump of a footstep brought Donald’s head back up out of his
hands. Another footstep sounded and Donald peered through the banister 
to glimpse his new savior. Slowly a foot lowered into his view. A 
slight squish sound emanated as the foot found the lower step. The foot 
was of a dark mans. Bony and decrepit were the first words Donald 
thought of. Then the second foot came to view. They appeared to be so 
familiar to him. He knew he had seen them before. Then the man spoke in 
what had to be the deepest raspiest voice Donald would ever hear. 
“Barricade the doors”. Then it dawned on him. 

The feet now wet were once packed in snow. The dark skin was burned and
the flesh melted almost to the bone. He began once again to weep, but 
weep in fear this time. The whispers outside started once more only 
this time originating from right beyond the door. Vincent’s corpse shot 
down the stairs at Donald. Donald tried to open the door but it 
wouldn’t unlock. The smell of smoke filled the air and the house 
suddenly lit on fire. Being miles from town no one came to save his 
life, but more importantly, no one came to save his soul. 


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