Cryptique

    Today I will surely die. Death is whispering betwixt the cracks and crevices of this old drafty home; watching me as I sleep. My concern was solely fixed on the hour and manner of my death. “There are so many ways to die” , I thought , as my hair stood stiff on end. Nay, I must keep my wits about me this foul day! I swallowed away my evil pondering with a generous dose of Tennessee bourbon.

    Then, at once, there was a thundering on the oak frame of my front door. Who could it be at such an hour? ;and with such an odd cadence that sends my spine into shivers? I slowly crept towards the thudding in hopes my unexpected guest would not be alerted of my presence. I gathered enough courage to attempt a glance through the peephole, amongst the persistent horrific banging. Then something curious happened. There was nothing. There was nothing, but an awful silence. An eerie, cryptic, deafening silence.

    I gingerly snuck my eye to the eye-piece affixed to the wooden door frame to take a look. My left eye, half shut, twitched as my pupil dilated to survey the grounds. Who is THIS looking back at me?! An anvil dropped into my stomach as I scurried away from the rotten cause of my despair. Another glass of bourbon fueled my hatred of myself and how pathetic a man I was showing myself to be. 

    I took my hand from the bottle and thrust open the door howling, “Who are you?! What do you want of me?!! ; but the only thing left was the sound of my falling echo and a letter lying on my doorstep, addressed to me, Mister Winston Blackwell.