An exploration into the horror genre, focusing on practicing imagery.
I spotted him at the edge of the party, standing just outside the pool of light cast by the strings of red lanterns hanging like crooked teeth on wide grins. The shadows from the woods almost seemed to encroach on the lit patio, reaching out to embrace him. He was leaning against a tree, his eyes dark onyx beads, glittering and cold. Everything he wore was black, from his tight fitting turtleneck to his skinny jeans and sneakers; it made his pale limbs look like they were floating, disconnected from his body. On any other night I would have dismissed him as a self-righteous Goth or moody Emo. Not tonight though. Not on Halloween.
He looked at me, his eyes dark, severe, and piercing, his gaze swallowing me whole. I shivered pleasantly, and he gave me a crooked smile. Slowly, I made my way through the throngs of drunken, dancing people, pushing past more than one Where’s Waldo, and almost tripping over a Pink Panther’s tail. As I got closer to him, everything around me seemed to fall away in layers: first the smells, of sour alcohol and sweat, then the sound of the throbbing music. The heat of pressing bodies and finally the light from the lanterns and house left last, like a veil of cobwebs falling away. Then it was just us.
His eyes moved over my body, up and down, and he gave me an unreadable look. I sucked in a breath nervously, suddenly feeling small and childish. He laughed, and I was surprised at the quietness of it, the softness. If snow had a voice, it would laugh like him.