The End… The words on the foolscap page clouded my eyes and mind.

My cramped fingers and trembling hands released the instrument of torture binding me to the document. The quill fell from my fingertip-less gloved grasp. Darkness enveloped my whole being as the last candle guttered and threatened to take what little glimmer of light remained. The echoing sounds of three soulless bells struck an ominous reminder; three o’clock in the morning. I attempted to cap the almost empty ink well. The stopper fell from my cold fingers. Reaching for the stopper, the confining, tattered coat only served to remind me of my meager surroundings.

Smoke-stained, heavy curtains, spurred from the draft of windows that no longer could be properly secured, subliminally screamed to add another lump of coal to the heavily banked fire lest the drafts of winter steal what heat remained in the room. A beeswax candle retrieved to replace its flickering predecessor forced the darkness to momentarily flee. The icy, damp of the London winter stole through my lowly living quarters.

Shadows whipped into life by newly fanned flames moved across the room. My mind raced. Sleep refused its welcoming blanket. What yet remained to be said?

Floorboards creaked. Instantly I was aware I was not alone in this mausoleum. On the page, the tale proclaimed it was finished, but my head feared it was not. Was it just the house complaining of the cold winter winds?

Again the almost imperceptible sound of footsteps shouted out their presence by quietly creaking stairs and floorboards. Was I alone? Was this just the overwrought workings of a sleep-deprived mind? Was I to be the victim of my own characters from an inanimate pile of pages?

The reminders of the tale of misdeeds scrawled beside me haunted mind and soul. Murder had been the result of characters exposed to depravity and self-indulgence. Was it to be my demise as well?

Carefully I shifted my body-weight in the chair. The sound of wood against wood complained to the room of interrupted homeostasis; of rebelling against changing the status quo. My eyes strained to see what weapons I had at hand. A simple quill, two additional unsharpened quills, a pen knife, a sheaf of papers and an almost empty inkwell. I feared these weapons were insufficient to fend off a determined attacker. My sleep-deprived mind raced. Could I defend myself? If so, how? Could I get to the fireplace poker in time? Just who or what was my foe?

What seemed like an eternity was in reality just a few heartbeats. I summoned my resolve and leaped to my feet. The strangled croak from my parched throat was all I had to pass for a yell of defensive determination. The shadows dueled with my efforts. There was nothing. Had I only imagined the foe?

Fully awake and trembling inside and outside, I inwardly laughed at my own folly. None the less, I made my way to the door. It was locked. The sounds outside confirmed there was life in the world at this hour; the clip-clop of horse hooves on cobblestone, the town criers proclaiming it was indeed three o’clock and all’s well.

I returned to my writing desk next to the hearth. The dark, quiet room enveloped me once again. I wrapped my shawl and blanket tighter to my body to conserve and trap what heat I could generate. Lost in my silent, nagging thoughts, I returned to my plight. What still remained to be told? What was I missing?

Then I heard a soft rapping at my outside door. Once, twice, thrice; the sound was soft, but perceptible. Again fear caught in my throat. Who could it be at this hour? I waited, willing it to go away. Once, twice, thrice; the rapping came again.

I rose from my chair. This time I reached for the fireplace poker. Feeling the unbalanced weight in my hand provided at least a form of reality; of solace. This time I could face my opponent with more than just a penknife or quill. I moved as quietly as possible toward the stairs leading to the door. The floorboards objected to my secretive efforts. Stepping once. Twice. The creaking wood complained of my advance.

The distance to the stairs was a mere three steps away. I called out in an almost unrecognizable croak, “Who is there?” Silence. “What do you want?” Silence.

My mind flashed to the writing desk. What had occurred to the character in my manuscript? Had he not been haunted by an assailant who demanded his life? Had he not sought blood for his misdeeds? Was this the same for me? Was I being haunted for my misdeeds? Was I to give my blood for what I’d done? But what had I done? What sin was so grievous that I must pay for my doings with my life? Had I committed murder? Had I robbed or swindled someone of their life savings, forcing them to die of the lack of sustenance? No. No! Why was I being haunted?

As my mind turned on this matter, the room seemed to grow colder. A cold chill fanned by greater remorse for contemplating the murder of another seemed to enter my mind. I felt the loss of attachment to life itself. Almost imperceptibly at first, the sound seemed to be that of a bird’s wings. Feathers fanned the darkness. The movement of air screamed its presence. I forced my balance to permit turning around. My muscles screamed their complaint. My heart raced until it felt it would explode. I turned as quickly as possible. It was not quick enough. I found my end.

Next day, a knock followed by a pounding fist, forced the landlord to reply from a window adjacent to the door. “What do you want?”

“Sir, I am a constable and must speak to you.”

Begrudgingly, the heavy, outer door creaked as it opened. A disheveled, old man with rheumy eyes peered out. The uniformed, law-enforcement officer stood erect. “I have reason to believe a man has died here. Open up.”

Had he died? Had he succumbed to natural causes? Had he been murdered? No one could immediately answer. It was; however, the end.