Cold rain slithers down the ghost-colored windows, fangs outstretched-ready to strike. Beneath the tattered, scarlet umbrella, I feel a wind pulling at my dark clothes. Something else is on the wind too, something off, foul even. The indistinct smell and taste of old metal touches the roof of my mouth in a whisper.
I shiver as the wind stops. It does not subside, it just dies in its own echo. Even the familiar stop sign on Morgue Road seems painted in blood. If I look close enough, the paint seems to drip off.
Stop it! You're scaring yourself!
Even as I murmur this to myself, the overwhelming blanket of fear encloses around my neck. Maybe the dark van across the street isn't really there. Maybe, if I close my eyes, and listen to the knife-dropping sound of rain, the van will turn back to Main Street and keep going past the window shops. Maybe I-