Dancing in the Dark

Posted on a Sunday in 2007 at 9:15 pm in Horror.

RATING 1 vote, average: 2.00 out of 51 vote, average: 2.00 out of 51 vote, average: 2.00 out of 51 vote, average: 2.00 out of 51 vote, average: 2.00 out of 5

TIPJAR

The following is a handwritten scrap torn from a journal. It is unattributed.

There are colors dancing in the darkness that no one can percieve. Tonight, only, I saw the deeper blackness drawing all things into it and shied away from depths blacker than space, blacker than the caverns beneath the Earth.

And in that, unseen, dance colors that hypnotize men who stare into them too long. Terrible colors of wrong and unearthly hue. Colors which bear not something that might be called intellect — for I hesitate to anthromorphize such a horrid thing and draw it in any way close to humanity in the conception of the mind — but cunning and purpose and drive at the least.

Colors that dance and draw and send out the spectral ghosts you see in waking life, the patterns behind misfortune, the dark forces you feel pushing against you and yet cry out inside you must be mad to entertain any thought of the existance of such. The colors dancing in the dark you ignore, for you must.

But I saw them tonight. I glimpsed their horror and my mind touched in some way upon what they represent, somehow peered into the deeper darkness that should not exist. For I spied it in a hallway, a hallway whose blackest path led only to hell, like a beast whose eye I dared not glance into for fear of being lost therein.

And now things are happening. I must have inadvertently drawn its attention. I see ghostly things in hallways, half-glimpsed tricks of the eye that nonetheless leave my heart hammering and my breath shortened in inexplicable fear, as though I have been threatened. I see a pattern, a piece of a pattern, built of words that jump out from the pages of passing papers, of voices and songs on the radio, of book titles read in passing, with painted figures on the cover whose eyes hauntingly follow.

Terror grips me like the shadowy, clawed hand of a long-fingered beast, bony and wiry and wrapped around me tightly, so tightly my chest aches and my ribs bruise with each passing moment.

I am terrified it will find me again, that it is looking for me, that any shadow I glance into will hold that dark infinity of starless night deeper than night, deeper than the black cavernous abysses beneath the earth, where the blackness is so complete the eyes have no use. Deeper than even that!

I am terrified I will look into that accidentally, rather than with a passing glance, and be lost forever, without a moment or a future. Just that infinity of darkness wherein there is nothing else, not even a thought nor the echo of one. That moment just past sleep, past dream, where the mind does not speak or think, nor feel, nor believe, nor anything. That moment where there is nothing beyond it, not even reflection on the moment itself.

The terrifying emptiness and end of all perception, even internal, even time.

And there is still that swirl of chaotic, perverse color therein to account for, a lurking whisperer, drawing us on, calling out to us, wanting us to find it. How long can a man resist a siren call he can not even hear? Or does not realize he can hear, so much like the world it is he knows, and so cannot tell it apart for the horror it is?

Yet I unaccountably can not cease my shaking, fearful consideration of that swallowing darkness glimpsed from the corner of my eye in the shadows of a hallway. My thoughts returning over-and-over to the black edges of the greater depths of nothing I glimpsed, the center of it, the belly of it, some infinity of lightyears distant, impossibly.

Can anyone understand what I am describing?

Does anyone know of the siren caller dancing in the dark, the terrible colors writhing unseen within like the impossible soul of the void? Can anyone understand what it wants? But no, there I am talking as though it can be understood, reasoned, considered, as though it exists…

But it does.

Can any tell me why it dances? Why it calls? Why it calls to the mind in the blackness? Can I even know of the dance I cannot see? Tell me, are we dancing in the dark and could we even know if we were, behind the rigid, basalt walls marking the boundaries of each mind, seperate from one another…yet where the darkness bleeds all together as nothing?

And now I know why the ancients feared that not-god which they named Father Chaos, the dark writhing unseen that never was, nor is, nor will or can be.

Oh god, the lights have flickered and the whispering threads I spy threaten they wil…



Copyright (c)2007 Raven Daegmorgan
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2 comments

  1. Comment by Kalthandrix on February 16, 2007 at 1:22 pm

    Overall – I like the imagery and the mystery of this piece, but it is hard to read in several areas – and I know that must be an intentional thing on your part, coming from the ravings of a man who has looked into the dark and seen something looking back.

    For me, with no build up to arriving at finding the excerpt of the journal or back story that connects this to something else, it was unfulfilling.

  2. Comment by greyorm on February 18, 2007 at 11:36 am

    Honestly, I agree.

    In fact, I knew that when I wrote it — I didn’t have anywhere to go with the piece, it wasn’t really a “story” — and even I wasn’t engaged in it at the end. But I also figure:

    a) it’s 800 words after no writing for quite a while.
    b) writing, like art, is hit-and-miss. Sometimes you’ve got something that works, sometimes you don’t. When you don’t, it’s practice.

    Or maybe “b” should be that old saying about breaking a lot of eggs to make a cake. Anwyays…

    I feel the same way about The Ogres and the Stars piece I put up way back, because it isn’t really a story and it isn’t really a strong piece. But it’s writing, and every writer has a drawer (or more) full of wonderful junk that didn’t turn out right or they never used.

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