Dreaming In Circles

A tall figure, gaunt and elegant in the way it holds itself, stands at the bottom of the slope, difficult to make out at this distance. The figure is clad all in white, a white that seems so out of place in the darkness that it hurts Charlie’s eyes. For some time it stands at the bottom of that slope, simply watching him and staring at him, or so it seems from up here. And then, without warning, the figure begins to move. With a slow and graceful pace, the set of its shoulders still encompassing a wise and majestic air, it begins to pace up the slope towards him, never once foiled by the uneven ground, never adjusting its pace or its posture. It is as inexorable as a glacier. Slow-moving, yes, but completely unstoppable. Nothing will get in the way of this figure. And a terror far deeper than anything Charlie has ever felt before seizes him. This figure coming up the slope towards him is his own demise.