Old Man Smith

‘Twas a dark and stormy night when Old Man Smith rested in his crimson, cozy, velvet armchair in front of a warm firing burning within his hearth. In front of him was a small, simple, wooden coffee table and opposite him sat the twin of his chair that remained how it had stayed for so many years, empty. On his table sat a glass and next to that a tall bottle which contained the potion for Old Man Smith’s reason for existence, whiskey. As he sipped his drink he gazed longingly into the devouring inferno, becoming entranced. Sometime passed as he longed to cast his own memories and thoughts into that all destroying maw and burn them out of reality for eternity, just like every other night he thought as the wind whipped around his home, and while pouring himself another drink. Old Man Smith sat there in his chair a few more moments when he became aware of something he had not noticed before, the howl and chill of the wind. “Damn wind” he mumbled under his breath I don’t remember leaving any windows open…” he thought, he than proceeded into the room the window had opened itself in and he returned it to its original position, the way he preferred. On his way back to his arm chair and fire he paused a moment, mid stride and looked at the door. A urge, a need lanced his heart to burst out the door, to run past his arm chair and into the outside world, but his anger, his hate pushed the lance away and returned to his seat, re-pouring his glass, unknowingly he had sealed his fate.
As before sometime passed and Old Man Smith stared longingly into the flame, lost in the past, his mind reminiscing of a time when Old Man Smith was not Old Man Smith, but Jonathan Smith. He was happy than, with a beautiful wife and eager to see the world, his only dream to travel with his love until he could travel no more. In those days he felt like he could live forever, for his reason of life was with him wherever he went, and was always close enough to embrace. He still felt as though he would exist till the end of time, but that feeling had become a curse, and though his reason was as close as it had always been, it was just now in a glass… which he once again refilled.
Time passed, and more whiskey went down Old Man Smith’s gullet while he ruminated upon his past when he became aware of a unpleasantly familiar sound and feeling. The howling of the wind, and the chill upon his neck. I must have magical windows he thought and laughed humorlessly as he rose heavily from his chair. He strode back to the room and looked back a moment at his front door, no lance in his heart, and no Jonathan, good thought Old Man Smith as he continued to his magical window. When he reached the port he gazed out on the dark horizon in a drunken stupor, scanning for the “damn kids” that always like to torture Old Man Smith in any way they could find, he was to preoccupied spying for the “damn kids” to notice when the magically opening window became a magically closing window, and the window crashed down upon Old Man Smith’s fingers, crushing them like a dull guillotine. He howled in agony and lifted his hand o see how badly his digits had warped, terribly it seemed to Old Man Smith, terrible enough for Old Man Smith to seek the aid of the outside world and sought the phone which he had not bothered to use in what seemed like decades… that and his glass. Nothing filled his mind save for white hot pain as he stumbled aimlessly through his house. Somehow he staggered across the phone, and somehow in the middle of his search he procured his glass. He looked at the key pad, hunting down the three little numbers that could help his pain, and could mend his disfigured hand, but it had been so long since the hermit had had any contact with the world outside his house he could barely find the numbers. After some time he did find the numbers and a woman answered on the other line
“911 what is your emergency?” came her voice on the other end
“I-” was all that escape his lips, his voice seized as a melodious tone came from his previous room. He was lulled for a moment by the tone, until he realized what the music hearkened, and the doom he had trapped himself into. He dropped the phone but remained his grip on the glass, as the heavenly sound pervaded his every sense and fiber, furthering his dread. He ran praying he was dreaming, praying he was hallucinated, praying the maybe he was insane, that would be a fate preferable to his own. But fortune was not smiling upon him, a fact that quickly became apparent as his eyes set themselves on the figure in his chair, and he froze. The fire in his hand was extinguished, but was replaced by an icy chill in his heart as fear and panic scratched its claws at him.
“Lovely evening, is it not Jonathan?” spoke the man in the chair, the man whose skin was pale as the moon, whose hair was black as night, whose eyes were icy as the dead of winter, whose hands strummed at a golden harp in his lap and whose voice was like the cold, sharpened, cruel steel of the dagger secured in his belt.
Jonathan collapsed to his knees and tears poured out his eyes as he begged “Spare me please oh please! Spare me! Spare me! I’ll leave my ways I’ll do all you ask of me! Please don’t kill me!” he squealed.
The specter sat in the chair, sipping on Old Man Smith’s whiskey, taking the appearance of death until his head betrayed his life as it shook. “Oh Jonathan I’ve given you chances aplenty to possibly redeem yourself after what you did.” his fingers not missing a string on the angelic instrument “You see, I have been gracious, but I am no god, my grace has its limits, and you’ve exceeded them.”
“But ple-!” was all that could escape his throat before the man was upon him, and the dagger once secured in his sash, was now secured in the heart of Old Man Smith, and as the last notes of the harp died into the night, so too did Jonathan’s heart. The man took back his blade, grabbed his instrument, and as he was leaving his eyes caught the bottle of Old Man Smith’s elixir and fancied a drink himself. All empty he thought poor drunken fool as he left Old Man Smith sprawled on his floor, next his beloved chair, exiting through his port of entry, and vanishing into the dying storm.