An Unknown Presence

By Morgan Twombly

Assassin 

He was an assassin. . . roaming. . . the night sky hid his presence. He was in control of the filthy streets. Graffiti filled the walls, rats scurried around the leaky garbage cans, and the pavement cracked at every step. The assassin stayed unfazed, gripping his knife by the blade. A sliver of blood ran down his hand, onto his forearm, and dripped drop by drop onto the wretched ground. He was still unfazed.  

The assassin climbed the violated walls to the top of the building, seeking his prey by sight. The building was tall enough to view the vast, starry horizon. His eyes were beamy, red; it was an unsettling look. As if he wanted to strangle you to death without question. He was a true murderer with no sense of heart.  

There he was: the prey — nothing but natural flesh, pleading to be pierced by the blade. The assassin jumped across to the next building, and the next. He was soaring through the air, the nightly breeze supporting his quick movements. Finally, he stopped right next to the park. No one in sight except the prey. The assassin seemed to freeze, taking a seat on the building, waiting for his target to make his mistake.  

The moon shimmered on the assassin, revealing his location. The silhouette showed a slender figure, sitting, holding a bloody, honed kitchen knife. His prey moved into the park, taking shelter from what was about to come. The assassin stood up in the dark sky, jumped into the midnight, and started to run. . .

Victim 

The man was filled with adrenaline, imagining the possible outcomes of what the figure could be. Is it just a shadow? Maybe it’s just one of those teenagers meddling around at night. No. The man kept running. He found a good climbing tree inside the quiet, large park. The tree was an old oak, surrounded by plenty of lush green leaves. It would be hard to spot the man in the shrubbery.  

Filled with fear, he lay silently across a creaky branch. Fast footsteps reigned the area, echoing inside his ears. He couldn’t move, even if he wanted to. He heard a screech against the tree, but it wasn’t any noise he had recognized. He inched his head over the branch to see what it was — nothing but a wretched kitchen knife sitting at the bottom of the tree. The knife was covered in red. . . it was blood.  

No one was there except for him, though the footsteps remained in his consciousness. It got darker; the moon started to shade away. This was not normal. The knife disappeared. Blood trickled across the stem of the tree. Something was carved at the bottom.  

The man leaped down to get a glimpse. It was barely visible. It read the moon is the key to surviving tonight. He thought about the moon as the sky was getting darker. The moon became more shaded than before. It was over. The man stood there in silence.  

Assassin 

The assassin had reached the park. His beady red eyes searched the premise, sensing any sneaky activity. That one. That tree. He ran over, though it was just as silent as any other tree. He looked up. It was the figure, sparring for his life, communicating through his desperate eyes. A screech fell down the tree like a rag against a window. The assassin dropped his knife. A trail of blood was left on the tree, and his slaughtered body was dragged away.  

He gasps for air, although staying calm under the pressure. His body was gross — stains speckled his clothes as his corpse was being dragged through the midnight soil. His filthy blood infused the ground, leaving a messy trail behind. This was it — the assassin’s grand finale. His show was finally over. He gasped for air one last time. . . thank you for ending my miser-. . . the assassin’s heart failed to beat any longer. His life was over. A mysterious shadow took his wretched blade out of the corpse and carved something into the tree, a message, an important one.  

Victim 

The man made it safely home, solicitous to jump in his nice warm bed. He took his socks off, then his pants and shirt, and left nothing but his plaid, ragged boxers on. He climbed into his bed, pulling the sweat-stained sheets over his flesh, succumbing to the safety of sleep.

The man didn’t wake up. He dreamt a violent dream, ending in his demise. No one found him. The man had passed unexpectedly. His last moments were in his own bed, as the moon became completely black, a treacherous void in the sky.  

A bright blue sky, that’s what the man saw. It was different. He was no longer in his bed, and nothing surrounded him, just emptiness. He groaned a little as he got onto his feet. A figure was approaching him with a kitchen knife. It was the assassin from the previous night.  

The bright sky gave the man a better glimpse of the figure. Wait, he recognized this man. It was his missing brother. Welcome home, brother. . . he said, I guess the moon got the best of both of us. The man realized. He smiled. The afterlife was quite an improvement from the real world.  

Narrator 

The moon shimmered down on the beautiful land. It was said that night was a petrifying night. The moon remained full forever, but why? The carving remained in the park, terrifying children who sought to play. . . the man who carved it was never to be seen again.