Autumn Madness, by Epifania Amoo-Adare

It was an autumn of the ridiculous. You know the kind in which nothing appears as it should be, except that which is tragic or no longer desired. Even nature had forgotten itself that autumn; and the leaves of the poplar trees festered into deep shades of mottled green, instead of lacing the ground with their familiar golden brown hues. On the ponds and parks grew a moldy parasitic mildew, blackened and unnatural. The stillness that followed crept in at such a slow rate that it was weeks before we noticed the absence of the birds, which usually heralded Summitville’s gentle entry into the cold dark hibernation of winter. It was as if time itself had gone to stay; halting the earth’s axis in its rotation and in so doing losing bits and pieces of Summitville’s flora and fauna into some unknown black hole.

No one knew what had brought on this malfeasance, but what was crystal clear is that it also addled the town folk’s brains and sent them into dark shades of vulgarity. Not even the deacon was saved from the tragedy of that mid-autumn madness, which had been let loose on Summitville like the hounds of hell. The malevolence turned all human kindness into a cheap imitation of itself amongst those who for some unknown reason were able to resist the worst forms of its effects. The rest turned first on those closest to them and then onto themselves; keeping the sheriff’s office fully occupied until Bubba burned the local jailhouse down along with all its occupants, including himself. By this point, there were not many left to save, jail or even bury – except a hidden few locked down in basements out of pure survivor’s instincts. I believe it was only the newborns who managed to maintain their purity, but what use was that considering their fate in that incensed period.

Those of us who made it, barely survived with a modicum of our reason, and now vaguely remember that the events began after the arrival of the stranger. I first saw him at the Summitville harvest festival; right after Mayor Trimble’s usual speech about the righteous nature of God’s creatures, raised firm and believing. The stranger stood tall, brooding and far behind the congregation with a black brimmed hat covering much of his face. I recall thinking how odd it was that he did not come in beyond the holy-water fount. After all, there were still many a free seat available. Odder yet was that he cast but no shadow, although the sun’s rays shone upon his back and beyond him onto the chapel floor. There he was throughout the whole sermon; immobile yet with an air of a certain clear purpose. Now ten years hence, I could not tell you what he looked like, but I know he felt wrong and that I only saw him once more after that.