Sand man
A dark figure stood in the corner of the room, tall and slender, its eyes dark yet somehow faintly glowing. It stared at Dianna. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Panic surged through her, a cold wave of terror that left her paralyzed. The shadow smiled a smile so wide it's teeth could be seen even in the darkness of the room. Long thin fingers reached into a tiny ornate sack.
It stood there, watching, eyes burning into her. It slowly removed it's long twisted hand from the sack. It came up to it's face, still grinning that impossible grin, laid one finger against it's mouth with a "shhhh". It then opened it's palm and blew sparkling sand at the bed.
The world shifted. The figure vanished, leaving behind only a lingering sense of dread.
Dianna jolted back up, her heart still pounding, her mind racing. She couldn't shake the feeling, the images, she could sense something still watching her. She kept staring at the corner, she swore she could feel a presence. But she had to let the irrational fear go, let it fade, as all nightmares do, back into the darkness from whence it came.
Shelter through the storm
The wind howled outside the cabin. The incoming storm rattled rotten remnants of what used to be shutters. Inside, the walls groaned and flexed with each churning of the squall. A single flickering candle cast shadows on the coarse wood walls. They danced quietly to the rhythms of the downpour. Jason sat huddled on a worn and faded rug, gently rocking, his thin shoulders hunched against the chill.
"It's just the wind, Jason," a voice rasped from the corner. "Don't you fret."
Jason didn't reply. He just stared into the flame, his eyes wide and unblinking.
"You should eat something," the voice continued, its words emphasized with a desperate, concern. "You've barely touched your food all day."
Jason shook his head, his lips moving silently.
"I know you're scared, Jason," the voice said, its tone softening. "But I'm here. I'll always be here."
Jason finally looked up, his gaze fixed on the spot where the voice seemed to emanate. But no one was there. Just the shadows, dancing and twisting upon the wall.
"Why are you so pathetic?" Jason whispered, his voice barely a breath.
The voice didn't answer. It just sighed, a sound like wind rustling through wet leaves.
Jason reached out, his hand trembling, and touched the air where the voice originated.
"I'm here, Jason," the voice whispered, its tone filled with a longing that Jason knew too well.
The candle sputtered and died, plunging the cabin into darkness. Jason sat alone, the cold saturating into his bones. He could feel the wind outside, howling its lonely song, the rains began to hammer at the dilapidated roof with renewed vigor, and he knew he was alone.
He closed his eyes, and a tear rolled down his cheek. He wished, with a heart-wrenching ache, that he could just feel something, anything, besides the cold emptiness that consumed him. He wished he could hear the voice again, but he knew, that long lost melodious muse that he missed so dearly wasn't coming back.
The hanging man
The Hanging Man arrived in Mills Pond without notice, a silent specter hanging from the ancient twisted pine at the edge of town. His face, twisted in a grotesque grimace that seemed to to take delight in and hold the sins of the world. His eyes, hollow and vacant, seemed to pierce the souls of those who dared to look.
Fear gripped the town like a vice. It was a fear that felt instinctual, ancient. Some distant memory from long lost evolutions, it felt pre man, buried within thier very DNA. It went beyond the macabre sight of the hanging figure. It was a fear that seemed to have been set in their bones, but forgotten until now. It was a chilling whisper that had been in the back of their minds and only now grew louder, it found it's voice within the dark figure.
The townsfolk tried to remove him countless times. They would gather, faces pale with apprehension, their hands would tremble as they approached. They would bring axes, ropes, even fire. But Everytime they neared the tree that held the ghastly figure, an icy wave of terror would wash over them.
Each attempt was met with a sting so intense that it drove them back, their hearts pounding in their chests, their minds filled with images of unspeakable horrors. They couldn't explain it, but they knew they couldn't touch the Hanging Man. He was there to stay.
Emma, the towns librarian, was different. Ever since his arrival Emma had been drawn to the one window in the library that faced the solemn silhouette. Ever since the hanging man appeared it was quieter than normal in the library, it seemed the townsfolks wouldn't even dare come to this side of town now. This left Emma with time, time to stare out and contemplate him.
She felt a bizarre pull towards the figure, a sense of kinship. She felt like she understood him, like he was a reflection of the darkness she carried within herself. Little did she realize it was that same darkness that everyone else in town felt but couldn't face. Always pushing it back, into the corner of their minds.
Emma had always been more in touch with her dark side, for that matter the dark side of humanity. She was fascinated by man's tendencies to do the worst but at the same time deny their very nature.
She was always the solitary, quiet type. Always keeping to herself, her face buried in a book. Not because she wanted to be alone, in fact for some time now she had felt a similar pull to what she was feeling now with the hanging man. A longing for companionship, for understanding, but she refused to settle for any man, for anything less than feeling complete in their presence.
Emma started to spend her days researching the Hanging Man, searching for answers in old books and forgotten legends. Already familiar with much of histories darkest times, man's worst atrocities, she was surprised she didn't see it until now but with a point of reference it was quickly becoming clear. Emma found stories of other towns, other hanging figures, all with the same eerie, silent presence. She found stories of ancient rituals, of sacrifices made to appease the gods. She found stories of the dark side of human nature. And most importantly she found the likely fate of her small town.
The more she learned, the more she knew that the Hanging Man wasn't just any man. He was a symbol of something much deeper, something that had been buried, deep inside everyone of us. Something that was now rising to the surface. In every case of the hanging man's presence the town eventually went mad, it's people turning on each other. It was clear when the hanging man appeared chaos, pain, turmoil would soon follow.
She knew she had to do something, but what? She couldn't just stand by and watch as the fear consumed her town. The effects of the hanging man's presence were already beginning to show. Fights breaking out, people acting bizarrely, general anger amongst the otherwise calm and quiet town. She may have been the outsider in her town, but it was a small town, she grew up here and she knew everyone in it. She couldn't stand by and just watch as what she suspected came to fruition. She had to find a way to understand the Hanging Man, to understand the call that drew her to him. Most importantly she had to find a way to break the spell that had been cast over Mills Pond.
Emma woke up with a chill and shivering sweats, she had seen, in a feverish dream, she had seen everything, and she finally understood. The night air was still, silent. Not a single cricket could be heard as Emma approached the pine. She felt the same chilling fear that had driven the others back, but she pushed through it, her mind filled with an unrelenting sense of purpose. She reached out and touched the rope, her fingers tracing the rough, worn fibers.
The silence was broken as she took a deep breath and swallowed hard. Emma quickly gathered the necessary implements that had been dropped from the townsfolks previous attempts to face the hanging man. Emma climbed the ladder. She reached the top, her heart pounding, thrumming, seemingly echoing like a drum. She looked at the Hanging Man, his face seemed more sad up close, a face of long silent suffering. As she faxed upon him she felt a strange sense of understanding. As she stared she knew he was looking back.
She reached out and took the rope in her hands. She felt the same fear, the same chilling dread, but Emma more than anything felt seen, and she understood. She was what the hanging man had sought all these Millennia. Simple understanding from another, companionship, to feel complete. She wrapped the rope around her neck, her fingers tightening as she pulled it taut.
The Hanging Man watched her, the emptiness in his his eyes changed, morphed, filled with a strange, almost hopeful, yet pitying gaze. And then, Emma closed her eyes and let go.
The Hanging Man remained, a silent, watchful presence, a reminder of the darkness that lurked within them all. But now, he was no longer alone.