“la silla” by Karl Schmidt-Rottluff.
As I stare into the heart of that diabolical leather chair in the corner, its enchantment reaching its ghostly fingers into my own darkest core, I swagger. The goblins in my brain, once again, laugh at the ludicrous hallucination . It's a chair!, my mind screams.
But the haunted beast sits as do I, frozen and wondering what kind of infernal magic that unlikely conjurer has brought upon me in this — this extraordinary nightmare. As if by some miracle, it should cease to exist and I may return to my own daily perversions which I am accustomed.
In theory, Tom was a dreamer. An illusionist. A want-to-be necromancer who predicted nefarious omens meant to separate old geezers from their pensions. His ominous forebodings have always been laughable. His ability to portend the timing of the sunset was the only prediction this man was likely capable to prove correct.
But now I am surrounded by a preternatural silence. It seems the prodigy is a prophet and I am a fool. I gave him my secrets willingly, and I, a worthy sorcerer. I scoff at my higher intelligence and vow never to take lightly another man again, that is, if I suffer to live beyond these many hours of darkness.
"Spectre," I demand, "Spirits..." I continued, my voice weakening, "... what strangeness is this that I have no defense against you?”
The silence goes unbroken. Even my prized talisman is ineffective against this evil that I do not recognize and I am afraid, because I, as never before, have no vision.
Jenny K Gilman.
This was a fun experiment in writing, attempting to use as many gothic words as possible in a snapshot story.