The Dying Light

I was walking home that night. Cold, wasn’t it? The kind of cold that bites through your skin, down to the bone. Yes, yes, I remember the chill distinctly. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and the air damp. That’s when I saw him. Old Mr. Lewis, hunched over like he always was, with his frayed coat flapping against his legs. He’d been my neighbour for... years? Decades, perhaps. Not that we ever spoke much. He wasn’t the type to strike up a conversation. Grumpy old sod, if you ask me. But something was off that night. Something different about the way he moved.

I approached him, naturally concerned. I’m not heartless, after all, no matter what anyone says. His steps were uneven, like he was dragging his left leg behind him, and his breath came out in sharp, rasping bursts. When I asked if he needed help, he didn’t answer, just turned and looked at me with those glassy eyes. Lifeless. Vacant. Like he wasn’t all there anymore. That’s when I realised something was very wrong.

Now, this is where things get a bit... hazy. You see, I didn’t follow him into the alley. Not really. I just... found myself there. One moment, I was watching him shuffle away; the next, I was standing in the shadowed mouth of that filthy alley. Funny how that happens, isn’t it? I’ve always had a terrible sense of direction. My mother used to say I couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag.

But I digress.

When I caught up with him, Mr. Lewis was slumped against the brick wall, breathing even harder now, wheezing like a kettle about to boil. His face looked wrong, twisted, as if something had turned it inside out. I must’ve gasped because he snapped his head toward me—eyes wild, teeth bared. I froze, and in that moment, I swear I saw something inhuman about him. His skin seemed to ripple, and his hands... well, they weren’t hands anymore. Claws, maybe. I don’t know how to explain it.

And then it happened. I don’t recall raising my hand, but I must have. There was something heavy in it, something cold, and I... well, I hit him. Not hard! I didn’t mean to hurt him. I was only trying to defend myself. I thought he was going to attack me. Anyone would have done the same in my position. I’m sure of it.

But then, the sound. Oh, God, the sound. A dull, sickening thud as the thing in my hand connected with his skull. Once. Twice. Three times? I can’t remember. His body crumpled to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and the alley went deathly silent. I stood there, panting, staring down at him. It wasn’t until later that I realised what I’d used—an iron rod, rusted and jagged at the edges, lying discarded amongst the rubbish. Where had it come from? Did I pick it up earlier, or had it just appeared there, waiting for me?

That’s the thing, though. People say I must have known what I was doing. They say I had motive. They claim I’d had a grudge against old Mr. Lewis for years—something about a dispute over a garden fence, a petty argument that never quite faded. But they don’t know the whole story. They weren’t there. They didn’t see the way his face changed, the way his body twisted into something unnatural. If they had, they’d understand.

At least, I think they would.

The police didn’t. Oh, no. They were all too quick to jump to conclusions. “A vicious, unprovoked assault,” they said. “Premeditated.” But how could it be premeditated when I don’t even remember how I ended up in that alley? How could I plan something when I didn’t even know it was going to happen?

I’m not mad, if that’s what you’re thinking. I know how it sounds. But you have to believe me. I saw it with my own eyes—the transformation, the thing that wasn’t quite human anymore. I wasn’t imagining it. I wasn’t confused. I didn’t black out. Not really. It’s just... difficult to piece together, that’s all.

They won’t listen to me, of course. They’ve got their theories, their “experts,” their witnesses who claim I’d been acting “strange” for weeks. Apparently, I’d been seen standing outside Mr. Lewis’s house on multiple occasions, staring up at his windows. They say I looked angry. But I wasn’t angry. Not then. I was just... concerned. Curious, maybe. He was behaving oddly, after all. You have to believe me.

They found the body the next morning, and everything since has been a blur. The questions. The accusations. The trial. They’ve got it all wrong. But how can I convince them when they’re so determined to paint me as some kind of monster? I’m not the monster. He was. I know what I saw.

I still see his face in my dreams sometimes. The way it twisted, the way his eyes glowed with something unnatural. It wasn’t Mr. Lewis anymore—not by the end. Something else had taken over. And if I hadn’t stopped him, who knows what might have happened? I was protecting myself. Maybe even protecting others.

But they don’t see it that way. They never will.

I’m writing this now, in the hopes that someone, somewhere, will read it and understand. Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t. Maybe I’ve remembered things wrong. It’s possible, I suppose. Memory’s a fickle thing. But I know this much: I didn’t mean to kill him. Not like they’re saying. It was an accident.

Wasn’t it?