For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror

“One more page”, whispered the insistent night, rubbing lecherously against the nape of my neck. In cocoon of light cast by the table-lamp sat I, reading Poe. And yonder could be heard the night, munching on the words dislodged from the pages, driveling the vermin of fright. In sleep, the night had opened the portal of my dreams. The fumigated, dead parasites of the bookshelf had then scurried under my skin. Afraid I made a pact with the dark, to feed it Poe in lieu of wakefulness. And now even the midsummer’s light cannot burn the ink of that night.

A road had finally broken through the copse. It was not an uncertain muddy meandering trail but one metalled with murderous intent. Unheard sounds had now taken root in the heart of the thicket. The insidious ivies of noise had woven a gossamer of fear around the wilderness. Dread distended the dimensions of four  yards. Peeved by the scurrying of furry little feet on its body the road responded with growl of engines and whine of horns. Then on one cold evening when the wood was shivering like a tramp in tatters and the wind tossed about the screaming colours of  autumn and the cries of hunger I found myself jogging on the road. At a distance I saw a man negotiating a bump on the road, with his scooter trample the sod. On approaching I found it to be mongoose still wedged with a sliver of life. Upon me could I feel the glare of a host of beady reproachful eyes as I deliberated on its fate: to be mangl