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    © 2003 Andrew Dormeier
As the thin fog crept up the low hill the man was sitting on, his brow furrowed in concern, but he did not seem afraid. He rubbed his shoulders trying to dispel the chill air that penetrated his t-shirt and jeans. A passing cloud blotched out the light from the full moon, casting this part of the wet swamp into a silent darkness. Tall trees with jagged branches reached high up into the air, their submerged roots anchoring them to the mud and peat-moss under the deep murky water. As the man looked out from his damp, moss-covered hill to his surroundings, he could only see a few dozen feet before everything turned pitch black. His eyes caught hold of a foreboding willow, seemingly lit up by the very darkness itself, lurking in its own shadow. Its leaves were long, dirty, dark green slimy strings. Its brownish-grey bark looked as old as time itself. The man then heard a very silent voice that seemed to echo in his head, coming from the direction of the willow tree: "come.come.come.come". The man stood up as if in a trance and started walking down the hill into the waist-high fog. He walked slowly and steadily towards the gnarled old tree. The fog, which had grown thick and hazy, rose behind him and blocked him from view.
The moon came out from behind the cloud, once again lighting the hill. But there was no sign of the man, or the willow tree. |
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