Nearer Everyday

When the moon is covered by the veil of darkness

The clock struck midnight, the crows leaping from the branches in a majestic display. The moon glowed eerily white-silver, the light almost weak, wrapped in slithering tentacles of fog. 

My breath was so visible in the crisp air that it almost felt like an object, like cotton or soft clouds. I resisted the urge to wave my hand through the delicate trails of breath, to see them break apart in the wake of my hand. 

I liked to write at night, where my creativity thrived. Depending on the subject of my writing, I would go to different places at night, to inspire my pieces.

Today I wanted to write a poem. A haunting one, the type that would trap someone inside the story, because they knew they would never be able to escape, to tear their eyes off the page.

So I chose the graveyard. It was a little further from here, but it was well-known. Truth be told, I meant to only step foot in there, get into the mood and leave. I didn’t like graveyards very much. 

Sings a sweet lullaby, dripping of sweetness and a touch of madness

It was insulting to call that a graveyard. Graveyard sounded like something that would be rotten, something that held death and sadness, something terrible and remorseful. But this graveyard was beautiful, like a garden, not a solemn grey but a haunting white. Colourful flowers littered the graves, carved angels watching over it.

The scent of flowers, some fresh and some wilted, had a sickly sweet scent that didn’t quite match the beautiful scenario, almost like spoiled honey. 

But I didn’t mind the scent and made myself comfortable on a hand carved bench. I was alone, except for a grieving man on the other side of the graveyard, crouched beside a grave and a woman with two children, setting flowers down on another.

I watched as the woman smoothed the little girl’s hair and I could feel the strained effort in her eyes to not cry, to stay strong. As she gently led them away, I wondered what would become of them.

The man got up too, but he took a seat on the next bench. I noted that he could cry but she couldn’t. He didn’t have anyone he needed to stay strong for. 

“Are you alright?” I decided to ask.

He sniffled to himself. “I guess.”

We sat in silence for a while, the birds humming in the background. I pulled out my papers to begin writing. The man had closed his eyes in exhaustion.

Deep into concentration, I almost didn’t feel him tap my shoulder.

“Hey son, what are you writing?” 

 He sat down next to me.

“A poem,” I said gently. “I’m not too sure what I’m going to write about exactly.” He smiled wistfully and sighed. “Good of you to have hobbies. All I do is work and pay off my loans. I’ve got no money.”

I thought of my wallet in my jacket and the money inside. For a stupid second, I thought to offer him some money. But I needed it as well, and it wouldn’t exactly help him out much.

Something caught the corner of my eye.

A figure can be seen on the outskirts of the human eye.

Not quite fathomable, not quite grabbable, it will not reply 

A silhouette. I couldn’t quite make out what it was. It wasn’t facing us, standing with it’s back to us, facing one of the far away graves. It was too dark for me to make out the faint outline, the shadow was black and the moon wasn’t bright enough. It looked almost like a shadow of a tree. Long dainty branches and a tall elegant trunk. Like the oak tree back at home.

Trees were magnificent things. Slowly, patiently, they could become such great beings.

“Hello?” I called. There was no response.

“Hmm?” the man beside me stirred. He had fallen asleep. “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “It’s nothing.” But he had already woken up and blinked around. “Whoa, it’s gotten so dark.”

“You should go back,” I told him.

“I can’t sleep at night,” he said. “I’d rather be here with her.”

Whoever she was, I decided not to ask. It seemed private and the word was raw on his tongue, carrying loads of hidden emotion I was afraid to even touch.

“Can I read your poem?” he asked. Automatically, I flinched. He didn’t seem to notice. 

“It’s not very good,” I said.

“It’ll take my mind off things,” he said. I frowned at that. It was strange, for a second I couldn’t hear my options anymore. I didn’t have a choice. Like I was trapped because this man lived a terrible life and I had to give him my poem or his life would be even more terrible. I didn’t like that, but I gave him the poem anyways.

“It’s good,” he said. He barely even looked at it. “It’s short.”

“I’m not done.”

He handed it back wordlessly. Suddenly, all my motivation seemed to just curl away, like wisps of smoke, and I felt no emotions as I stared at my work. I could see from his eyes. The words seemed like jumbled thoughts, he wouldn’t understand. No one would unless they were me.

Just as I turned my head to grab an eraser, I caught movement. 

But when you look again, it’s not quite the same 

It was not a tree.

Because trees don’t move.

And I was sure it had moved.

I squinted at the darkness. Before it was further away, so far away I couldn’t make out its shape. But not that it was closer, it resembled a man.

Well that made sense. A man that came to mourn, like everyone else.

Except it was still unfamiliar to call it human. The uncanny resemblance was there, but it looked more like something that looked human, rather than a human itself. Maybe it wasn’t even the same tree. Maybe I saw two trees that looked the same.

The figure never moved even after I stared at it so hard that my eyes burned. I blinked and looked back down at my paper. What was I trying to fix again?

I debated asking the man if he could proofread it, but he had fallen asleep again so I decided not to wake up. Time flew by as I was lost in my thoughts. I was jolted out of concentration by the small crunch of leaves.

 It was definitely a man.

Although I still couldn’t really make the visual connection, no object or plant could move and no animal would look like that. Perhaps it was in a weird hunched position.

Somehow you can see his face and body frame

It looks as if to mimic the human but monster as well

It was only a couple graves down, close enough to be able to hear me if I said anything. Again, I debated if I should call out to it, but I decided to let him mourn.

Turning back to my paper, I felt a sudden surge of inspiration. Like a wave of tranquility and motivation. I always found this would happen at a perfect hour in the night. Excited, I scribbled away at my papers.

Like an angel or God himself. 

Something isn’t quite right. It doesn’t add up. The thing is just standing there. It’s just not right.

I gently nudged the man sleeping next to me awake.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured. 

“Can you see that man over there?” I whispered, pointing at the dark shadow.

“No,” he answered. “Oh,” I found myself saying. “Do you see a person?” he asked, alarm in his voice.

“Yes,” I answered. But I didn’t feel quite scared. Only curious. A fish stuck to the hook, but not struggling as it is reeled in. 

“Do you mind googling this for me?” I asked him. He nodded and took out his phone.

But no, this is darker than the heavens and seas

“A creature-like silhouette,” he said. “Ah. You’re fine. Actually, according to most sources, you’re actually quite gifted. There are many people who see this figure. It’s harmless.”

“What is it?” I asked. I didn’t want to look at it. So I funneled my vision to only look at the man.

“It’s a figure of death,” he continued. “He will always be far away, lurking in the shadows. He comes closer and closer as your life shortens. Apparently, this isn't it that rare. There are many reported instances of it. Just ignore it. You might be hallucinating, but I believe you. You’ll be fine. I find that rather fascinating.”

“But it isn’t.”

“Hmm?”

“But it isn’t far away.”

I believe this is Death, he has come to grieve

“What?” he blurted. “What do you mean?”

With a shaking finger, I pointed at the thing. But the man’s eyes were blank. He couldn’t see. He only watched my horrified expression.

“Can you see his face?”

“Y-yes,” I whispered. 

“What does he look like?”

“Horrid. I can just feel it.”

“But you have to tell me how close he is!” he demanded, his voice loud in the dead silence. I shut my eyes. “He’s right over there. Right there.”

“Maybe that’s not close,” he said weakly. “They never really specified how close it would be.”

Who is his victim, who does he see? 

“Am I going to die?” I whispered. “Tomorrow? The day after? Is he going to kill me?” A whimper escaped me, a dread filling up my chest so I felt anchored to the ground. 

There was laughter and the man shook his head. “Listen, alright? I’m pretty sure that ain’t death.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Just continue your poem kid. You haven’t slept for days.”

“How do you know?”

“You’ll be fine.”

I continued to stare at my poem, ignoring the terrible feeling . But that feeling wasn’t coming from the shadow. And that feeling never went away.

Because his eyes didn’t smile with him. 

He was lying.

Until I believe he is looking at me. 

It took a long step and stood right in front of me, so I smelled the terrible scent of rotting flowers and cold flesh. Watching me. Silently. Unmoving.

I turned and felt something cold press against my neck.

“I’m sorry.”

When the moon is covered by the veil of darkness 

Sings a sweet lullaby, dripping of sweetness and a touch of madness

A figure can be seen on the outskirts of the human eye

Not quite fathomable, not quite grabbable, it will not reply

But when you look again, it’s not quite the same

Somehow you can see his face and body frame

It looks as if to mimic the human but monster as well

Like an angel or God himself. 

But no, this is darker than the heavens and seas

I believe this is Death, he has come to grieve

Who is his victim, who does he see?

Until I believe he is looking at me.

- Written by Nina Zhang.