This week’s #writephto prompt from Sue Vincent is this
When do you give up?
When do you realise it’s just some trick of the light, something in the imagination that makes you think you’re seeing something when you’re not?
Do you keep going back, even when your best friends think you crazy?
How long do you give it?
How do you keep the faith when everyone doubts your sanity?
What morsel of hope do you need to encourage you to believe?
How many times have I asked myself these questions?
How many excuses have I made to take the path through the woods, even when the track over the hill is quicker, less muddy, more populous, with fewer terrors?
But then, when I’m alone, when the sky is just that shade of dark, when the air is just the right kind of still, when my mind is full of the calmest of thoughts, then I find I’m back on that path forcing myself to a look askance, testing my peripheral vision for telltale fragments of fleeting images: a crumbling architrave, a split mullion, some blown plaster.
I know – I just know – that if I can see that entrance, really know I’ve seen it, even if only from a fraction of a scintilla of a second, then it will be real. The balcony, mud-filled and rotting, the hard smooth black door will all be there, just as I’ve said they are. And the people, shadowy black scraps of fleeting shapes will become as real as I know them to be, as my dreams, my constant unrelenting, demanding dreams tell me they are.
And when finally I find that angle, uncover just the right sort of glance and have the mystery reveal itself to me, how long before I regret what I have done and what I have unleashed on this world through that door?