The Dead-Walk Prologue: The Dead He had been living a long while among the Dead barely keeping one step ahead of them, walking the streets. Back then there was an old house, decrepit and flat, squatting by the old B & O tracks. Its rooms stank of blood and hunger, and that is where the madness came, falling on his head like a warm rain, softly. He belonged to those ghosts like a man belongs softly to a woman or like a man would seek out the Dead for solace. This was the mark of madness, and He wore it like a poorly cut robe while walking beside the endless tracks. He followed the smell of blood to the tattered brown door of the frail house. It was the door, or most of what was left of a door, to a house, hanging loosely from its hinges, broken and swaying softly to the rumbles of the trains howling for blood, that was the trigger. It was the door that the Dead saw through, and they came as He did, walking down the tracks, bringing with them madness. It was a special kind of vision, like madness, that we shared, and it let him see through the walls of the house. It let him see all of those souls walking tragic lines in the sand by the tracks softly sighing. He saw them all, and they were the Dead. They were all time at once, every birth and every death at once, and it chilled his blood. He was taken to a room today for them to draw blood from his veins, but instead they took his madness in the sharp needle-bite. Shadows, which were the Dead, fell back to shadows. They sent him back to the house with paper thin walls and gaping windows and made him lay his head softly on his pillow. But still in his ears He heard the sounds of walking. He heard in his ear-pushed-down, loud as cathedral bells, the walking that was actually his heart pounding out the blood into his veins; it flowed soothingly back into him, his madness, billowing in his body like clouds flowing softly into thunderheads slamming down lightning for the Dead, rattling the panes, the walls, the doors of the sad little house. He know it is hard to believe that madness can be held in the blood, but even so, you should beware the softly whispered sounds of the sleeping house, because in the world tonight, the Dead, they are a-walking.
Posted on: Wed, 28 Aug 2013 01:42:46 +0000
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