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Stanton’s shadow waxed long that day, taking on an odd darker shade of black which one rarely sees beyond the deeper reaches of the cosmos. Stuck in a dead end job, hopping from religion to cult to philosophy in hopes of relief, the man’s mind had been forced into a rut ever since his last girlfriend had left him. He could hardly blame her, of course; she was never one for commitment from the start, and he lacked what she would consider worth committing for. He could hardly blame himself though either; he had tried to be sensible and sensitive and attentive when he could. He supposed that must have been the thing that drove them apart in the end, as a free spirit desires no cage of either iron nor embrace, but the whole thing had left him with a lump of guilt that refused to go away.
As he turned the final corner into his rundown apartment, Arthur P. Stanton decided he had turned the final page on which the story of his life was written. Neither Rabbai nor repatriation had cleared his conscience, so rounding the stairs which brought him to his door he decided that he would end his life right then and there. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Four. Once he had reached the top, he climbed no more.
If he hadn’t turned then and there, it would have ended for him on that long shadowed day. As is, the heart of man has a morbid curiosity which causes it to desire knowledge pertaining to its demise, so rather than stepping backwards into air and tumbling back down, he looked over his shoulder to the sight of something odd. All over the stairs, reaching downwards toward the ground, there lay a shroud of inky blackness that obscured the shapes of the landings as well as the geometry of the steps, save for one thing: a single being, clad in darks and grays, seemingly both humanoid and shapeless with a cone obscuring whatever head may lie on it.
At the sight, Stanton’s desire waned. His blood slacked. His mind dulled. Previously fully intent on killing himself, he had a sudden bit of introspection which one acquires as one attempts such a thing; and, figuring that his mind was made hastily, he stepped back along the hall which he groped for the door to his lodgings.
Upon finding it, he locked and bolted himself inside, suddenly feeling his fight or flight instincts had kicked in, as if an animal which had just stared death in the face. Despite that, he felt oddly calm; perhaps drained, would be a better word. Day after day of the same routine with little sleep in between manages to do such a thing to anybody, one would imagine. Thus, as his body screamed with every cell for him to move, his soul had already made up its mind. Struggling was useless. The darkness from the steps had already begun to seep beneath the door, the door itself sweating drops of material pain itself, and when faced with a pursuer which one is uncapable to fathom Arthur did the sensible thing and dropped to his knees in admittance.
With a groaning, the cone headed being in gray stepped through the space of the door, and addressed the submissive Stanton.
“A unique host among hosts, I see. You welcome your guest with acceptance.”
An ethereal tentacle covered in a thick inky miasma reached out and held his cheek, seeming to touch the soul which clung to it as well. The shock caused a sudden shudder, but beyond that Arthur did little to change his position, much less flee.
“Of all those who have hosted me, there have been those who fled, those who fought, and those who worshipped, and yet I have never seen a host who has met my gaze with such brazen…. Acceptance .”
As the first tentacle held, more tentacles proceeded to spring around his torso, locking him in place as the existence swept towards him even closer. Each one gave a shock as it touched him, causing shudders worse than that of the first, but as he grew to expect the intensity of their primal pains he recoiled against them at the feeling of a familiar but unexpected touch to his face.
The cone had reformed, the shapes redrawn so what had been seen at a distance as a being from beyond creation was now recognisable as a gloved woman in a dark velvety dress. Her hair seemed to shimmer in the blackness, deep reds and grays that showed through the black expanse beyond.
“You interest me, host of a new age. Since ancient times without record, the hosts of humanity have given me shelter and shape within this plane, but none have reacted so little to my eminence, as if what I am is a natural fact of life. To be honest, I find that concept novel.“
The tendrils from the void lurched, almost as if they were resonating with a laugh, and the unspeakable guest in black stepped forward, sliding her hand from cheek to scalp through his thick scruffy mat of hair, patting him on the head almost as if he were a dog.
“Normally it is honor enough to host me, but I find your reactions endearing. Such silence I have drawn from you, but not out of reverence or hatred or fear but instead you seem to just lack conversation you think worth bringing up! So remarkable…”
A tendril tilted his limply held head up to face her, and their eyes met. Within those eyes seemed to swim the vibrance of blood, red set within black, stretching into infinities beyond infinity. The moment seemed to drag on eternally for Stanton, holding him captive.
“Mortal, speak your desires. Fame. Honor. Acclaim. Any desires, feed them to me, and I shall make them real. Tell me anyone, and I shall give them to you.”
Those final words were the statement that finally broke Stanton. Shivering uncontrollably, he broke out in tears, his life coming back to him. The loneliness. The uncaring world around him. The pain and stress and strain which had weighed upon him for so much for so long that he had decided that night to take his life. They all came back at once, and through whimpers and sobs the tendrils seemed to slacken as if caught off guard, and as he wept on the floor he uttered one desperate plea:
“Can you make me feel loved?”
The room held silent, as the tendrils danced uncertainty in the air. It must have only been a few moments, but for Arthur it felt endless. Second after second, hour after hour, reaching on and on, until finally with arms and not tendrils the guest in blacks picked him up once more and held him close to her immortal frame.
“Host of honor, I swear to it.”
Stanton waxed long in the shadows that day, walking through alleyways and dimly lit shortcuts the way only a man who had spent considerable time looking death in the face would. It was well past sunset and yet still he lingered more time in the dark, savoring the feeling. Reaching his apartment, building he felt giddy, happy to be back, from a job he hated into the arms of…
Of…..
Of...uhhh…..
The question of whether or not to consider the Ancient being which currently played at his house was a woman or something else entirely was something that had never actually occurred to Arthur, and as he pondered it he found himself not caring about the answer. Did it really matter if she was a girl or a demon or a deity as long as he loved her and she provided him with a continually replenishing supply of life? He found it hard to come up with a reason why it would. Both immortality and true love are things that some men spend their entire lives looking for, and he wouldn’t trade those with her at his side for anything.
One step, two steps, three steps, four. Up those stairs he went, and at the top he stopped cold, trapped within a web of familiar pain which had been engrained over the past four years upon his soul. There stood the woman in black on the landing, wearing a loose summer dress and holding his child in her arms. Their child.
Pouting, she glided over to him, and kissed him as deeply as one could be expected to kiss another while holding a toddler in her arms.
“I’ve been waiting for you at home all day, and you keep teasing me whenever you’re out by frolicing about within my domains. It makes me so frustrated when you do that, you know? It’s not like I can reach out and tease you anymore like I used to. With flfthlhlln around I’ve had my hands full, so it’d be nice if you would rush home more to be with me....”
Ethereal anchors removed, Arthur stepped forward and they both headed toward his rooms. Holding her from the side, she leaned in and asked him one final question:
“Do you finally feel loved?”
Holding a moment, he stopped and thought before with a kiss and a hug he replied but a simple:
“Yes. Yes I do.”
And for the rest of his unnatural life, Arthur P. Stanton never again looked behind, and he never again wished for death.