An old blind man with a long grey beard (kinda like Dumbledore’s but shaggier), his skin hanging off his bones, was walking through his decrepit little house with a lantern,
a lantern made of 3 goat skulls pointing to the front, left and right
(the man seemed unaware of his creepy lantern),
sometime around midnight.
I, the narrator:
“He always felt like he was being followed. All the time, everywhere he went, felt like he was even being watched while he slept. He said it felt evil, malicious, but after sixty odd years, he’d become accustomed to the feeling.
He walked through his house each night, with a lantern in his hand;
Said it was to create the impression for anyone spying on him that he could see, you know, to dissuade the occasional thief, anyway, this particular night he reached his bedroom door and could swear he was facing, at that moment, that which was usually on his back, so close then that he could smell its misty breath. Was a scary feeling to lead a life with. Let alone such a great one in spite of it (Yes he seemed to be someone of great social standing and success), or may be it was because of it.”
I awoke as I walked out of his house with the last bit of narration, “And the door closed behind me as I made my way back into..” seeping out of my dream self into the slowly creeping consciousness, it spilled out of my mouth in a clear, hushed voice, “the suicide forest.”
It was then that I realised I had been wandering around in someone else’s personal hell. His routine nightmare. My lucid dream may as well have been someone’s reality. A ballad of the man who walked into the forest to end his misery, to rest, never to walk out of the Suicide for-rest.
By: Viraj Belgaonkar