Once, very, very long ago there was a traveller.
His travels reached so far and wide, he had touched each edge of the world.
His eyes had witnessed the beauty of nature.
He had felt the warmth of the friendliest and kindest people.
And yet, it all appeared not enough, for he would never stay anywhere for long.
Village after village.
Forest after forest.
From one strange unknown to the other.
It was as if he was searching for something, restlessly pursuing.
Or perhaps it was not searching at all.
Could it have been fleeting from something?
The man was a master in travelling and of course always had a story to tell the kind people who would let him stay a night.
Because of his vast knowledge, sometimes his caretakers wouldn't even charge him a dime.
Everyone seemed to know him, but no one remembered his name.
Though there is one story.
Only one, which people sometimes still whisper.
Something more akin to a ghost story, something one tells to strike fear in another.
A story unlike heard before about this lonely traveller.
This story is about how this traveller became the guest of a certain small village he passed by.
Supposedly the final in his long journey to the unknown.
It was late when he arrived.
The sky was dark and gloomy.
In the air you could smell the soon to approach rain.
The traveller knew he needed a roof over his head soon and a bed to warm his weary body.
As he arrived, the lady of the land was the first to greet him personally, something she always did whenever a stranger would cross the border.
She was a woman whom liked to know about the goings-on of the outside. Curiosity was one of the things that made her beloved, always ready to lend a listening ear to anyone.
At the time this took place, she was already quite old. Her hair had turned white and her face wrinkled.
She had learned the ways of nature and fortune, the people loved her as much as she loved them. Not as a saint, but more like the village's grandmother.
"Dear traveller." She spoke when she met the weary fellow, her eyes scanned every inch of him: "I've heard of you haven't I? The goalless traveller?"
The man smiled tiredly: "I guess that is what they call me, but I actually am with a goal."
As if already knowing the answer, the lady answered the question on her mind, while slowly nodding her head: "So you are returning home?"
"For me home is the journey, but yes, I am returning to my place of birth."
A cold breeze made the man clutch his coat a little tighter, to which the village grandmother smiled and took him to the local inn.
YOU ARE READING
Short Horror Stories
Kinh dịMy vision obscured by the darkness of my mind... A bundle of 100 short horror stories written by me. Most of the stories here are more on the psychological side of horror. Some stories might be a bit dark so viewer discretion is adviced.
