The Horror
Matthew Ryan Fischer
One night The Horror followed Jeremiah home. He didn’t know it at
the time. There was nothing odd or strange to draw attention to it at first. And
then later, when there was, it would be too late for anything to be done.
The Horror noted Jeremiah as a suitable host because of the vacancies
in his soul. Jeremiah had blank spots, ready to be filled. The Horror was drawn
to him, as nature abhors a vacuum.
Jeremiah was a believer in past lives and past fates. He had dedicated
much to this study, theorizing that he himself had lived many such past events
and that many others had too. For years he had sought them out, trying to
discover who and what they had been.
Jeremiah wanted to be the best and to do that he needed to find
the best. He had a theory that he could capture small elements of those he met,
taking the best parts of them, their past lives and melding them into a stirred
up pot of cosmic goodness. It was like a jigsaw puzzle for the soul. If he did
things right, he could be the best that time had to offer. If. That was a big if.
The Horror devoured pain and thrived on tragedy. It didn’t think
it terms of time or understand concepts such as the soul. The Horror was, always
and forever, past and present and future at once. It feed on missing links and
empty hearts, finding the wounded and the worn and sucking the marrow from
their proverbial best life versions of themselves.
Jeremiah was made up of millions of tiny bits of other people’s
best lives. He was a perfect meal, just waiting to happen. His crossing paths with
The Horror was an inevitability.
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