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He came for me in winter. Now that I think of it, He would have never come at any other time.
You see, He likes to play; He likes to have fun with his charges. It must be awfully boring otherwise, His job that is.
I knew it was my turn, saw the warning signs. As I said, the sick bastard likes to have fun.
First signs are usually so small one might miss them, like whispers in an empty room. A flit in the corner of the eye, a shadow in a hallway. Signs so minute, it takes those experienced with Him to see.
He’ll fix your feet so you can’t walk,
He’ll fix your jaw so you can’t talk.
Then: Paranoia. Someone is watching you. It’s in the closet, He’s hiding under your bed. He’s coming for you, and there is nothing you can do.
Well, what is this that I can’t see
With ice-cold hands taking hold of me?
Paranoia is where I think He has the most fun, I personally think he just lets it do its own thing and just watches His chosen tear their own lives apart. This can stretch on for years, decades. Sanity unwinds, madness reigns supreme.
Oh- How you’re treating me,
You’ve closed my eyes so I can’t see.
Time to time, he may honor you by showing himself. Of course, he won’t just pop in and introduce Himself. Where’s the fun in that?
No, He prefers to be seen only in partial glimpses. A slim shadow in an alley, a flash of a well-trimmed suit. A hand, spider-like in its length of digits, carving your name in the steam while you relax in the shower; a wheezy sigh from the foot of your bed as you drift off to sleep.
He doesn’t care about age, laughs aloud at the offer of money. Where He takes you, neither matters.
No wealth, nor land, nor silver, nor gold.
Nothing satisfies Him but your soul.
He has existed as long as man, and by His very nature means that He will outlast us all.
He has many names, some old as language itself. He has been called the Slender Man, Thanatos, Malach HaMavet. He is El Muerte, the Reaper of the Abyss. He is Abbadon, the fallen angel.
He is the Last Horseman, the Rider on a pale horse.
When god is cold, and the devil takes hold,
He will have mercy upon your soul.
I can hear him calling for me, His cruel titter like a cross between a child’s and a fiddle. He knows where I hide, but He doesn’t mind. And why should He?
The children played, the preacher preached.
Time and mercy are out of your reach.
He stalks this place. Can’t you hear?
Won’t you spare me another year?