The Stranger

The Stranger

        The stranger approached town from the east.  I noticed him entering the woods as I was escaping the torches of the mob that had been pursuing me for days.  He entered on a dirt path that forks immediately after you vanish into the darkness of the forest.  I found it peculiar that his oil lantern never swayed as the vessel turned and engaged bumps on the dirt path.  I was intrigued because he drove his own stagecoach, lightly holding the reigns that steadied the black steed.  It was the kind of black that seems it would rub off on you if you were to touch it.
         I was careful to not let him see me, as I knew his familiar disguise.  It was the disguise of the devil.  I couldn’t make out his face, as his tall, slender body hunched over itself.  His hands were visible, however, and it seemed they had never seen the sunlight.  The kind of hands one whimper to avoid touching.  The knuckles and fingers imitated large fallen trees, and the elongated trunks looked as if they could be broken on touch.  His long black hair could barely been noticed as it sat upon his night tunic, as his equally dark pants gave indication his legs rivaled his fingers.  A top hat of matching color crowned his holy scalp.
        I followed the black mass into the dark forest.  He took a right at the fork, and headed towards the pond that wasn’t visible yet.  He had been here before.  At one point the stagecoach stopped, but he did not move.  It was a preempted stop.  He always stopped here.

        The horse didn’t yelp, it never did, just snorted out of its nose.  He kept the reigns in his hands as he continued to look forward, the only direction he ever looked.  I don’t think he could turn his head from side to side.  Even when he moved he was motionless.  My breath was fog, but he didn’t breathe.  A statue that was alive I had never seen.  He was a tribute to the devil, that wasn’t alive or dead.  Something in between.  Like something you had read about but hoped didn’t exist.  Does he exist? 
         He reached the pond and the holy transport abruptly stopped without command, realizing he familiar spot.  Everything was silent, still.  He sat motionless, like my breathing.  Waiting.  Slowly he dropped the reigns and dismounted.  His black boots stood on top of the mud without sinking in.  I noticed his overcoat came down to his knees, as if it was a driver’s uniform. 
        He slowly approached the entirely still pond and gazed it over.  On second thought, he’s methodical, not slow.
I’m not sure if he’s ever spoken.  I doubt if he’s ever had to for his hands tell his story.  They tell me that no one has ever been close enough to speak to him.  Who would ever approach this being?  If he had a face it would say more.  It’s a peculiar feeling.  Standing in the presence of something so frightening.  Something that can do more than end your life.  Something that can banish your soul.  What’s more frightening is the chance that we do have a soul, and that someone can take it.  Assuming this is all true, is the worst part not being scared?  Maybe that’s just where I am.  Maybe that’s a better option.
        I found it interesting that he checked his gold watch that hung on a matching chain, attached somewhere on his chest.  Who would be meeting him?  Instead, he slowly approached the water and methodically raised his left hand, with the ghost palm facing down, as if calming the wet vacuum.  His other dominion reached into his pocket and slowly raised in the same manner, this one, however, dropped pieces of corn, one by one, feeding the imaginary ducks that inhabited the pond.  One by one we watched as they slowly wandered over.  And it was always the same.  Once they preyed upon the corn, they became real, tangible.  And after they were real, they became larger and larger after each bite.  He slid his hand into the trap several more times and repeated the feeding process until his veins were dry.  Realizing this, the now large ducks disrupted their calm wading and flew into the starless night, creating a massive stir in the water, causing it to leap over its edges and burst its banks. 
        Within a few minutes he had a blazing fire going that rose above his tall, skeleton-like frame.  I still hadn’t seen his face.  By this point, I knew he knew I was behind the cluster of fallen trees behind him.  Again, maybe this was a better option.  What happens when you realize your soul weighs less than your body?  Has this been felt before?  When fighting fatigue is more damning than Hell?  When you’ve become so used to a stranger that you’re uncomfortable without him.  Does he become your friend?  What happens when he becomes you?  Do other people know he’s there, too?
        He checked his watch again; it had to be midnight by now.  He approached his stagecoach and revealed a familiar black leather bag full of what must surely be trapped souls.  He knelt beside the fire and untied the top.  He reached into the bag and pulled out a jacket, then pants, and boots with brass buckles.  He laid them on the ground as if dressing an invisible man.  After studying the articles, I realize they’re mine.  The same shelter I’m wearing now.  I stand from behind the fallen trees and slowly approach him, as I’m in a trance.  I can’t think, only feel.  The sadness overwhelms my chest and I begin to sob as I draw close to him.  My cover has burned before at this very spot.  I fall to my knees and begin crawling the last remaining distance, as he stands at the head of my invisible body, and watches me struggle to the boots.  I lay down on my side, whimpering, for the pain has just begun.  One by one he burns my shelter, as each thread stabs my mind, creating a permanent scar on my brain.  A scar that will be forgotten, only to be created again.
         After they’re gone, he stands over me, knowing his power.  My soul is his to keep, but we both know this isn’t what he’s after.  His deed is done.  And, for now, he’s back to the stagecoach until tomorrow.  As for me, it’s time to go home.