Dusk descended upon the forest like a thick blanket, bathing the land in pitch, aside from the single light illuminating a decrepit room. Martin sat hunched in the rickety chair of his cottage, shoulders drooping, pale and skeletal fingers gently holding his worn poetry book. The candlelight flickered, dancing on the short stump of wax, an ethereal spirit that dominated the room with faint brightness. A silver moth fluttered beside it, casting flickers of forlorn shadows upon the prose written on the yellowed parchment of his only book. Martin’s bright, silvery eyes flashed while the silhouette of a monster fluttered upon the opposite wall. The wind moaned between the trees and whistled by the window, but grew silent once more, and all lay still.

Martin read the soothing verses, allowing them to slip from his lips by rote memory, feeling the comfort of their familiar beauty: “The willows weep where the field drowns into a river flowing with ease / Yet yellow yarrows dance with the cruel evening breeze…” Martin furrowed an eyebrow as he stopped his reading. Hair prickled on his neck as his pupils dilated; had he heard a creak? He looked out into the darkness of his bedroom; ominous shadows lay where light could not reach. He looked toward the dark corners. Nothing. Martin glanced down once more, and continued to read: “Without wish or worry, gently swaying between trees / A quiet rustle; there rests much woe / Beneath the river, death looms low…”

His blood ran cold as he peered above the pages once more; there had been a whisper, and though faint, he was convinced he had heard it. The parchment rustled as he lay the book on his lap. Martin cocked his head a fraction and stared away from the candle, listening keenly. The silvery moth continued to dance before the glow of fire. The window rattled and jerked as a gust of wind screeched past the cottage, but silence ensued.
The ominous atmosphere chilled Martin with sudden fear. He froze. Memories returned, washing over him. The voices had only come twice before. His mother had been there to comfort him until the demons returned to their abyss the first time; she had enveloped him in warmth and love. He faintly remembered her coos, her kisses, her soft smile…

The image of her lifeless body in the casket and cold, unsmiling face surfaced suddenly. He widened his eyes in surprise and gasped, for the memory was astonishingly clear. He could see her purple lips and deathly pale skin, her unseeing, limpid eyes
Tuberculosis had taken her when he was young, leaving him alone for the second visit. He shuddered violently, realizing that the room had grown colder. Goosebumps suffused his skin, as fear did to his mind. A sense of restless unease clung to him as water to dry skin. Determined to return to his realm of peace and to banish unwanted memories, he took the ragged book and turned the crinkly page, worn from use and yellowed by time, to continue reading. As the page settled, Martin focused his eyes, but alas! The page had turned to scarlet, and the letters crawled as if possessed. Startled, a shiver ran pure energy through his weak body, released suddenly at his fingers, and sent the book soaring. It lay sprawled upon the floor. His hand began to shake and convulse in shock, and a droplet of blood spattered upon his face as he trembled. Martin realized incredulously that his own beloved book had cut him.

He gazed at the laceration as it brimmed incarnadine with blood. It was a grotesque sight, as a single drop of crimson grew slowly and separated, running down the finger and into his palm. The droplet was a blade, cutting through his skin as it descended. The wound was serious now. Across his hand, the cut had grown, and blood was welling up from his flesh. It began to ooze from his open veins and pour, a mighty torrent! His arm drowned under the scarlet flood, and Martin rose from his rickety chair in panic. But when he inspected his hand once more, he saw only a tiny incision, already clotted, with a silvery sheen.

Martin felt his breath come out in sharp tatters, fleeting and wishing to escape as he did. Tenderly, he felt along the small cut. The grave wound had gone, but a low, audible static began to sound. A voice. A whisper. A demon was moaning in an unknown tongue, an otherworldly, unnatural sound that chilled Martin to the core. The arcane whisper did not relent: it grew slowly in volume. Another voice joined in, and another! A ponderous laugh boomed within Martin’s mind.

The tumult augmented as still more voices began to emerge from their recesses. The discordant cacophony of voices was overwhelming! The demons within his head created a chaotic frenzy, and Martin felt himself drowning in the havoc.
A single, screeching shriek pierced the veils of confusion in Martin’s mind, and he felt fear. True, crippling fear. Darker than death, deeper than the depths of Tartarus. Fear was as a monster, a colossus that crushed all thought, all resistance, and all courage. The creature morphed into despair, enervating and complete. Martin attempted to mitigate the frenzy by pressing both hands to his ears, and screwing his silvery eyes firmly shut, but in vain.

The voices grew louder. Incessant. Debilitating. Martin found his pallid arms crawling around his chest into a desperate hug, and began rocking himself in a trance. His eyes were tightly closed, but the raucous noise continued as his lips gave forth verses from the book that lay unmoving on the floor. But there was no comfort in empty words; the droves of demons did not relent in their merciless onslaught. “Please! Please! O Lord, stop them, I beseech thee!” howled Martin in anguish. The clamor continued, but the forest remained silent. Absolutely silent.

Martin knew he was at fault. The priest had told him that he was a heathen, a worshipper of Satan, and possessed. He believed that Martin had doubted the Church, that he had invited the ordeal. The misery. The despair. That he had cursed and killed his beloved mother. Martin was not welcome anywhere, for love eludes he who worships evil. They had tried to exorcise him. Twice. Upon failing a second time, the priest exculpated himself and claimed that Martin was to blame for denying God and his tender mercies.

Tears streamed down his face. He was worthless, and the people were right. All of them, completely right! What a fool, to believe that isolation could help him! What a fool! To believe that anyone could ever love him, that anything could truly comfort him!

Martin felt himself collapse and crumple to the floor, though he neither knew, nor cared if it was of his own volition. He stumbled as he tried to rise, staggering into the only other room of his ragged cottage. He leaned upon his sole wooden table, but it cast itself onto him, and once again, he was on the floor. The walls shifted and shook. This was true evil, for Hades had released his hordes upon him. The howls, the dirges, the laughing…the voices had grown louder. Oh, so loud! The wind howled bloody murder, and the window threw itself open. For a moment all was still as the small, silvery moth fluttered from the other room, onto the fallen table. Martin slowly raised himself. His tears gleamed silver, as did the moth, perched on his hunting knife. The keen, jagged blade glinted in the candlelight. If there was an answer, he would find it there.

Martin’s fingers gripped the hilt, and as he turned it upon himself, the blade gleamed, dancing before his eyes. The poniard was sharp, its figure seductive. A myriad voices were howling and chanting as if in approval. The moon’s wraith flinched as Martin screamed.
The silver moth fluttered above his figure.
The candle blew out, and the darkness of the forest was complete.