Second Street: A Short Story

A shiver of November wind chills you as you make your way home. Your feet crunch the leaves that have blown so lazily onto the pavement to an almost soothing rhythm. The sky is gray with winter clouds, yet still not threatening a winter storm. Yet, the way your breath freezes in the air and how your fingers rub together in the poorly insulated holes you call pockets makes you hurry. That is why you choose to go down Second Street.
You know it like the back of your hand, but like a friend that can keep no secrets and make no allies, so does everyone else. It is as familiar to you as your own home; so much, in fact, that the memories of its shuttered windows and closed doors fill your vision long before you reach the decision to trespass. But

Your breath quickens. You search desperately for an exit, a way to flee, a primal need to escape this place and return to a warm, safe home with people to comfort you. But even as the panic sets in, it begins to subside. And something even stronger than your fear compels you to move forward. You shiver, and even though you find yourself surrounded by a warm summer night you are cold to the touch. Your hands are white and clammy, your breath freezes in the air again, and yet still you wonder what has happened. A tug at your chest pulls you onward into the street, and like a dog on a leash you follow it. There are no objections on your lips, no thoughts of refusal in your mind. The pull forward is too strong and as the music grows louder you feel as if something wants you here. It wants you to see something that you’ve missed. This thing, this compulsion is beyond anything you've ever known. You wonder what would happen if you said no. If you followed you’re envisioning of safety and turned to never look

Everything behind you has disappeared. Then you can see the shadows of figures standing right outside of your vision. They’re guarding you. They’re watching your every breath and some deep part of your soul knows that these shadows are waiting for you to turn back. To hesitate. To look on the life you have left—if even for an instant. You are Orpheus in Hell and the demons that surround you long for you to give them the satisfaction of your failure. As the scenery passes you by, you can see them move from dark corner to dark corner. You envision the glowing red eyes and vicious yellow fangs of your story books, but somehow know that these monsters are worse. A chuckle brushes by your shoulder, fainter than a gust of wind, and even as it engraves itself in your mind you doubt if it ever