Hate Mail By: Steve Bolin


Hate Mail
By: Steve Bolin

Iíve been waiting for you to die. Your death is something Iíve looked forward to since the day you were born. Iím in no hurry though. Iím savoring every moment.

You know who I am. Donít pretend you donít. Youíve known me your whole life. Your conscious mind might try to deny my existence, but your unconscious mind knows the truth. Oh yes. Think back to when you were young. Donít you remember the thing you saw in the closet or the monster waiting for you beneath the bed? Your parents said there was nothing to be afraid of; it was all just your imagination.

Do you remember the look in their eyes as they told you these so-called words of comfort? You knew they were lying to you, but the contentment of their lies was less fearsome than the truth. Because the truth, you see, was that they knew about me.

Of course they knew about me! I haunted them as children too. I still haunt them, just as I haunt you.

Why not prove to yourself what I say? Go to some isolated and desolate place. I especially love lurking in the forest at night; go there. Or better yet, go to the nearest graveyard at midnight. Get out of your vehicle and walk to a tree near the center of the cemetery. Sit down, relax and close your eyes for as long as you dare. What do you hear?

Is that sound above you only the leaves being rustled by the wind? Or is that me descending like a mist and lurking in the shadows of darkness cast by limbs and branches? Are you still so sure that Iím not real, or is there now some black light of doubt leaking through the cracks of your certainty?

Does the overwhelming desire to crawl out of your skin and run screaming to your car fill you with a lunatic urgency? Is the chill you feel creeping down your spine just the coldness of the wind, or is it really my icy finger of death exploring your body like a psychopathic lover? I think you know.

Sit there under the tree in the graveyard with your eyes open, and consider all that you see. When you again close your eyes, my soft voice will whisper a picture of reality in your mind. In your thoughts, my voice imitates your own. Only in your imagination can I adequately show you that which is hidden from view in the real world.

Behold, the graveyard is a gateway to an unfathomable dimension of pain and suffering. The world beyond the grave is incomprehensible to your puny, insect mind, but I have been there. Hideous, festering corpses lurk in phantasmal, spirit-like bodies. You will pass through this gateway one day, and I will be the one who leads you there.

Look again at the zombie-like corpses. These images of decaying flesh are but one of many forms that any of my race can take. Iím not the only one feeding off your fear, death and misery, you know.

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About the Author

A life long resident of Indiana and full time writer, Steve Bolin has previously published poetry and short stories in, "Black Petals," and "Dark Moon Rising." His first fantasy novel is scheduled for release in early 2006.
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