The Black Moon

By Felix Lukhale

In the deep night, when things are asleep; animals by the grass or burrows; man by his warm sheets in the bed; and sound blanketed by a quiet echo, stirred slightly by a draft of wind, here and there.
Kwame, Betty and Mumbe awake in a night full of unknown shadows; mind's hazed; air chilling; hearts racing.
They find themselves trapped in a hellish place where shadows lurk, fear corrupts and the darkness palpitates alive.
They search out, the weight of their lives, propelling them onwards, to escape that damned place.
Little do they know; something lays hidden, draped by darkness, silenced by the screams; something that can change the course of their actions; shaded by the night.
A black moon floats in the cool night, glimmers, pulses as a heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Felix Lukhale
• Release date: Mar 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310223419

Felix Lukhale

Just a dude with a love for stories.

Book preview

THE BLACK MOON

By Felix Lukhale

Copyright 2014 Felix Lukhale

Smashwords Edition

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CHAPTER ONE

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Kwame awoke. His breath, haggard and deep, framed his ribs with every gasp. Blurred images flashed through his mind. He blinked, adjusting to the dark room.

‘Where am i?’

He lay on a large bed. Linen sheets, warm and damp, twisted about him.

‘A nightmare--what was it about?’

He scratched his scalp and propped up on his elbow. Rivulets of sweat cascaded down his face and back. He controlled his breath and got up.

He swayed as he walked; the floor cold beneath his feet.

He flicked the switch on. Light flooded the room. He shaded his eyes and made for the bathroom.

He washed his face, the water, stung his eyes. He straightened his crumpled jeans. He never wore pajamas to bed.

He stared at his palms; mind spun with a distant pain. Droplets of water dripped down his palms like tears. His nails were trimmed, except for two on his left hand; the index and the little finger. His memories a dull haze, but was slowly clearing.

Red eyes reflected in the mirror; sweat, heavy on his brow; lips quivered; hands trembled.

‘A grown man, getting worked up over a dream. Cool it, you’re not a kid ’

‘Should I go back to bed? Nah I can’t sleep. What about-- ’

He paused, a finger on his lips, unable to follow the thought through. He turned off the taps and the lights and headed to the living room.

The living room stood: small and stuffy; white wallpaper lined the walls; two bloated grey couches sat opposite each other; a mahogany coffee table on the center; a large window with grey speckled drapes, streamed shafts of moonlight on the planked floor.

He had rented the apartment in Riodia, for his work; Photography. The countryside offered majestic scenes. To capture and eternalize: lights gleaming on rushing streams and rivers; birds dancing on the roaring breeze; stretches of thick green poplars; by the click of a camera, was his life.

‘I will get the picture of the year, this time around. This year, my name will be known’

He sank onto the couch, resting his ebony hands on the smooth couch arms. At the coffee table lay a worn novel and two empty cups with tea leaves plastered at their walls.

‘Strange, why did i drink from two different cups?’

He reached out, arm stretched, lean and muscled, for the novel.

He flicked through the pages, eyes glazed; scratched his scalp with the two long nails.

Though he loved stories, truth is, he used them as an escape. He missed her, missed Rachael: The sweet ring of her voice; warm press of her body, snuggled at the fireplace; her smile, lighting his mood, like the sun over deep canyons. His wife, his love; but she was dead.

He sighed, went back to the novel but couldn’t concentrate. His mind still misted.

‘I should exercise-- clear my thoughts’

He placed the novel on the table, knocked a cup over in the process. Stood up and walked to the back of the living room, it was spacious there. He stretched his limbs, flexing the muscles underneath.

Hands laced and clasped the back of his head. He started to squat, heels dug on the planks. They creaked as he sank, back straight, thighs clenched.

He stopped, midway, still as a statue. The hair on his neck and arms raised; he listened, hoping it was his imagination.

A low voice pierced the air, again; a low dreadful voice. A tight knot clasped around his lungs; his breath labored, body shook lightly. He unclasped his hands and rubbed his face.

He smiled.

‘Remnants of my nightmare’

Before he could resume the exercise; the voice, a little lower, rang again. It was full of agony, of misery, full of spite. His heart pounded against his ribcage.

‘Kwame calm down, relax. This an after-effect of your dream, breath, just breathe’

The whisper hung low over the room, like a trapped echo, never lifting. He turned towards the window. The drapes lay languid, rippling a little, on a rogue draft of wind.

The voice was carried from there. He started toward it; legs shook slightly with each step. He stopped, three feet away from the window.

The voice hadn’t risen again.

‘There is nothing outside. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing at