The October Music: Second Verse - Day 6

Street of Dreams
Your nightly walks have become a ritual of sorts. You let your mind wander as you allow your body to do the same. Long stretches of road have become your therapy and the soft sounds of the world around you settling down for the night are the soundtrack. You have come to find this time as your happy place, as it were, and a way for you to decompress from your long day’s labors.

Most of the time, you follow your normal routes. Up and down, around and through, left and right. All of those directions have become second nature to you now. You know exactly where to turn and when. Second right at the fire hydrant. Third left at the gas station. Down the hill and under the bridge and then it's a left and straight on to home. It’s comforting, this routine of yours. It’s something you look forward to after your busy days.

You never run. You never really even speed-walk. You just walk at a leisurely pace on this loop that you have come to find is your own. It’s calming. It’s normal. It’s routine.

Why, then, have you chosen on this particular night to modify your routine? Why have you decided to stray from your normal path? Curiosity, perhaps? Wanderlust? Who can tell, save you? The truth of it, sad to say, is that whatever the reason may be, it does not matter in the end.

You have taken the left instead of the right and now you find yourself in an area wholly unfamiliar to you. Not simply in the shops and buildings that you have not become accustomed to, no. The geography of the locale seems off to you. Surely it is nothing. A trick of the mind in an unfamiliar place.

Why not continue along your path, you have asked yourself. Why not explore and let the desire for newness take over this one night? What harm can it do? These streets are well-lit and inviting. This is not an area in which you feel danger.

So, you walk. You tread these streets and sidewalks, gazing at the homes and businesses nearby. You become enamored with your surroundings and think that perhaps this quaint little area should become part of your normal walking route. You are so engrossed in the world around you that you scarcely notice that you are no longer walking on pavement. Instead, cobblestones pepper the ground beneath you.

When you notice, you freeze. The homes, once small but cozy, are now towering, intimidating, Victorian. No longer do you see automobiles or trucks sitting in driveways. Instead, a horse-drawn carriage trots by, its driver dark and silent. You turn to see from whence you came and your blood freezes.

Behind you, there is nothing but trees and a dirt path leading through them. There is no gas station, no laundromat, no sign of familiarity. The streets are empty. You are alone. Then you hear it.
​
The howl of wolves.