It’s a deep, trembling, bone-ache. And it’s hungry. It rises after dusk when the ochre hues of sunlight have vanished beneath the horizon and the tall, dysmorphic shadows of the mountains stretch out toward me like bony fingers. I do not know what it wants; it is silent and treacherous and cold. It harbors nothing except hunger.
I am running before my mind can catch up to the steady thunder of my steps, pushing me farther away, propelling me out of reach; but I fear there is no safe place to run, that the aphotic tendrils will not hunt me down, twining between houses and over highways and around trees until they can latch onto my ankles and tug backward, knocking me off balance until my teeth crack against pavement.
I can already taste copper in my mouth.