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A Tale from the Moonlit Path
by T. Lucien Wright
Certainly it was unreasonable to take that particular path at night; it was ridiculous to even consider it. But the moon was as full as it ever got and she’d be darned if she could ever remember anything ‘untoward’ happening on that path anyway. Day or night. And the way the trees framed the path reminded her more of a bridal path. And everyone knew that nothing bad ever happened along a bridal path.
She leaned a little left then a little right, her body swaying with the curves of the path as the moon spilled its rays onto it, beckoning, cajoling. Seeking her out. She felt a moment of anxiety, not much really, no more than one feels before they turn the lights on, but enough to reconsider what she had probably unconsciously already decided—she was going to take this shortcut home and no one was going to stop her. Well, almost no one. That damnable inner voice ight.
"“Go way,” she whispered. She always whispered to that inner voice—her inner demon, she sometimes called him. Sometimes he obeyed, sometimes not. Tonight he quickly obeyed so she started down the path. Slowly, though. Like someone looking into houses late at night. As if the people in those houses were looking back…
She stopped, looked behind her. She’d heard something. And it wasn’t an animal either. She’d heard someone take a step. She was sure of it.
" Who’s there?” she said, more to herself than some unseen entity.
No answer, but she really hadn’t expected one. If there was someone there, and if they wanted to harm her, they certainly wouldn’t… “Of course they wouldn’t,” she said aloud. “No self-respecting bad guy would ever announce himself.”
She turned back around and immediately, her inner voice questioned her about that. (What if there is someone there? What if he’s sneaking up on you right…) She wheeled, felt her face flush and her heart trip. But all she saw was a ribbon of moonlight and shadows dancing in a rising breeze. She smiled. That was it, she thought. Just night shadows along a moonlit path. A couple hundred yards and she’d be home. Safe and warm and home.
She turned again and suddenly the path looked less appealing, not as brilliantly lit. Not as welcoming. More confining, actually, more claustrophobic. More capable of hiding someone.
Her eyes started to burn and her skin moistened. Summer nights did that, though. As close as the inside of a coffin, her father often said. The air still smelled of something sweet, though, some flower she couldn’t remember and no one ever died smelling flowers, did they?
She put one foot ahead of the other, then did it again and again until she was actually walking, not briskly, but fast enough. Her sneakers slapped against the dirt path and echoed. She didn’t like that, it made her back tingle and the hair on her arms stiffen. The bushes need trimming here, she thought. She could touch both sides without raising her hand. She stopped, looked to the right and then the left. No, that wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t touch the bushes. Then what had brushed against her arms? What possibly… Fear brushed you, that’s all, she decided. Perfectly natural to be afraid. Why someone could be…
And then she saw him. He stepped out from behind a bush and simply stood there looking at her, his face black and gray and like butter where the moon’s rays hit; his cheeks, his nose, the square jaw. He wasn’t tall or exceptionally large, but he was dressed all in black and he had a knit cap on, pulled down over his ears. No one wore a knit cap in the summertime, unless…
He stood no more than ten feet away and he was holding something in his hand. She glanced at it when it caught the moonlit. Steel, had to be. She looked at his face again, then back at his hand. Christ, a knife. A knife! She could barely move now, barely draw breath. She was going to die, right here on this bridal path with the smell of fresh flowers in the air and the moon shining lustily down she was going to die a horrible, brutal death.
" Please, God,” she said, “please help me.”
She felt it again, something brushed her arms and as she did, the man shoved his knife into his coat pocket, turned and disappeared into the woods as silently as he had appeared.
***
Not twenty minutes later her dad did the fatherly thing. He went out there and looked around. Sir Galahad with a beer bottle. She appreciated it anyway.
" Probably just my imagination,” she said when he got back.
"Maybe,” he said, “but you can’t be too sure. Pretty girl like you out alone late at night.”
The story appeared in the middle of page one the next day. Girl found raped and murdered on moonlit path. Twenty-one, went to state college, lived at home. The parallels were incredible.
" Jesus, honey,” her father said, “that—”
"Could have been me.”
He took the paper from her. “Says they got someone in custody.” He turned the page, turned it back, looked puzzled. Said, “No picture. Wish they had a picture.”
She took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “I’m going down there, Dad.”
Her dad simply nodded.
She had expected to see him in a lineup, but the case had obviously gotten beyond that point. She saw him in handcuffs, walking down the hall, a detective on each side. She told them what had happened and then she asked if she could ask him a question. They grudgingly obliged.
She stepped as close as she dared and looked into eyes just as vacant as they’d been the night before.
"Why not me?” she said. “Why did you let me go?”
He looked at her, looked at the detectives then back at her again. “Those two guys,” he said. “The two tall guys standing on each side of you. That’s why.”
The detectives led him away and as they did, she felt it again, something brush against her arms. One on each side.TO COMMENT ON THIS STORY CLICK HERE
© Wright, 2005