The footsteps followed, patters of feet, scratchings, the slurping of an unknown motility. He turned slyly to look behind him. The footsteps ceased and the shadows withdrew into the deeper darkness along a crumbling wall. Now and again he had been able to escape the oppression that followed him, but here in Vientianne the nameless shadows had returned. There was no clear image of them, just an accumulation of glimpses throughout his life. They were just shadows, perpetuated by each new struggle he faced. He fought the battle with the menace, a war he knew would be waged until the time he would wage no battle ever again.
They grew on his weaknesses and his mistakes. Each new misdirected choice he made added a new limb or hissing organ to their deformed shapes. Their grinning faces bulging from impossible places on their forms. Clawed arms, tentacles, mouths protruding from ribs, eyes peeking from armpits, insect legs and slug-like slime organs allowing their heaving bodies to lumber after him. Lately he had had the strength to keep them beyond reach. They had bayed from afar, perhaps the occasional shade had passed through his mind. But his weakness and loneliness here in Vientianne meant they haunted his every step.
He finally arrived at the guesthouse. He climbed the fluorescent-lit stairs, still the shadows passed by, flitting passed holes in the walls as he ascended. He opened his door, switched on the light, and entered. He showered, and made ready for bed. He hesitated at the light switch, but knew well that no doors nor lights would hold them back. He turned off the light and rolled over to try and sleep. The shadows settled next to him and hovered around him, watching, attentive, patient, omnipresent.
