Fable 

An old man once knocked on my door, weary from the road he traveled. He asked for nothing--except for a spot in my sitting room to rest. I nodded. In silence, I led him to that room, our room, and let him lay his head against my velveteen cushions. I bade him a peaceful night and swept to my room.

The hours seemed to pass by slowly, each breath mocking me. Each passing breeze reminding me of my company. The light of the moon barely going through my red curtains. I laid awake. The man had seemed harmless, kind even. What had I to fear? He was no killer. Yet he lay in our room, sleeping peacefully. The thought of him touching our things, our books, our globe, your gloves--it mocked me. Resonated a newfound ambition, and before I could think better of it I stood in the doorway of the sitting room.

The old man staring at me, a leather-bound book laid upon his lap. He said nothing, and before an apology slipped from my tongue he was gone. The book lay upon the desk, all but one page remained blank. The black ink slowly seeping through to the others read, "Fear, not the man you meet at the door, but the one you meet at the mirror."

***

Jailene Bernal is a Hopeless Romantic who has spent her youth exploring the ghosts of people’s past. She is currently working on a podcast and hopes to one day publish her first novel. Jailene is dedicated to becoming an art educator in hopes of helping students find their own voices. You can find her on Twitter @Jaijai_alexia, and on Instagram @Jailexia