• the_novel_idealist

27 September 2019 - 15 Minute Fiction Friday

Drum. Drum. Drum. For weeks all I had heard was the incessant drumming, calling to me, me alone, in my head. But what for? Why?

Louder it became, quicker, pulsating through every cell of my existence, blinding me, deafening me to all else, calling out for, what was it, help?

And I came, how could I not? How can one not rally to the unknown to answer a cry for help? But here, amongst the mist-sodden meanders, the eerie stillness, with that instinctive eruption of dread, the drumming stopped.

Was I sure it was help they called for, or me?