The Fear

The old house of stone stood through the weatherings of the four seasons. The emerald green vines grew, smothering the old stones. Further and further they grew, reaching from the heated depths of the rusty earth. Creeping through each crack that crumbled, tasting the metallic rock. Like worms, they dig and fester, finding long hidden secrets, the rocks whisper, finally succumbing to the vine. Long forgotten, dancing tales, which once the broken stones held. The night of the unfortunate ending, from whence he came. The man with the eyes of fate. That night brought a rich flow of thick scented blood, seeping through the now rotting floorboards. The pebbles whisper. . . The pebbles whisper.

- 2 July 2010