The Town of Dawndale wore the night as its cruel second skin. It was twilight hour and the moon was full, casting emotionless shadows along the horizon. Under the cover of darkness, smoky grey clouds deteriorate under the fluorescent silver beams of the moon, as if they were shadows to be banished. The intense rays of white shimmer loomed over the lifeless town of unseen phantoms that lurked the eerie streets, immersed with the subtle symphony of hollowing trees. Standing in front me, guarded by black steel railings, stood the decrepit, abandoned old house with it’s boarded ground floor windows and smashed first-floor panes. There was a cold, musty damp smell about the place standing amidst a gloomy backdrop of cloudless ambiguity.
As I stood, gazing at the dilapidated manor. I shieved, as though, ice had replaced my spine. The cold air seethed through my entire body, beneath the layers of warmth. Dark shadows surged the still air, along with the faint smell of death that hung in the chilled darkness of night. Whispers of lost voices echoed all around me, alluring a gloomy ambience.
In a moment glimmer of perpetual reality, shadows of faceless figures emerge in the distance, floundering imprudently through each room, while the quiet whispers of dawn trails softly behind every impeccable touch of human obscurity. The silvery wisps of shrouded souls echo the halls in vain, surging the air with cold chills, intensifying as the time ceases to tick. The howling trees sway its last dance of agony, while the lonesome ghouls of ravaging nightmares slowly fade in the far distance, like lost souls wandering in the high skies of unreachable existence. Alone in the silence, the symphony of the subconscious calling in deeper. Subtle sounds of light winds carelessly bellowing under the house of darkness, deterring the lasting hails of moaning walls. At long last the night no longer young, now stolid, and weary.
