The figure stands, before the gate. He is inspecting, inspecting each grain of wood, each plank, searching for the weaknesses. One hand rests upon it, ready to push, to bring down the door and enter the garden. An incredible force in the fingertips gloved in pitch black as cold and empty as the space that hangs overhead. The void of space ready to fall and crumble. The figure stands frozen at the gate, ready to bring it down.
I hardly sleep now. Every time I do, the figure is one step close to getting me. I’m starting to think this figure is waiting for something before he’s inside the garden. That makes me shiver and grow cold, the thought of him actually inside the garden; it’s like an invasion of space. It’s making me worried but I don’t understand why. Yet the closer this figure gets, the more haunted I am with sounds and stuff. I hope it is the flu but I can’t kid myself, somehow I don’t think it is. Get a grip Jamie!