Personal Narrative Essay: Moving Out Of Our Old House
After we got to our new house and got everything unpacked and furnished,.The sense of insecurity is overwhelming. Thought it …show more content…
It was a quiet night, even for a weeknight, with almost no one on foot. The farm, as it was most nights, was completely empty, sometimes there would be a farmer organizing his stuff in the barn. Today is empty.
I turned down a short side-street in order to loop back to my house when I first noticed him. At the far end of the muddy road, on my side, it was the silhouette of a man, dancing. It was a strange dance, similar to waltz, but he finished each "box" with an odd forward stride. I guess you could say he was dance-walking, headed straight for me.
Deciding he was probably drunk, I stepped as close as I could to the road to give him the majority of the sidewalk to pass me by. The closer he got, the more I realized how gracefully he was moving. He was very tall and lanky, and wearing an old suit. He danced closer still, until I could make out his face. His eyes were open wide and wild, head tilted back slightly, looking off at the sky. His mouth was formed in a painfully wide cartoon of a smile. Between the eyes and the smile, I decided to cross the street before he danced any …show more content…
Still smiling his smile, still looking to the sky.
When I finally found my voice, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. What I meant to ask was, "What do you want?!" In an angry, commanding tone. What came out was a whimper: "Whaaaat....?". Regardless of whether or not humans can smell fear, they can certainly hear it. I heard my own voice, and that only made me more afraid. But he didn't react to it at all. He just stood there, smiling.
And then, after what felt like forever, he turned around, very slowly, and started dance-walking away. Just like that. Not wanting to turn my back to him again, I just watched him go, until he was far enough away to almost be out of sight. And then I realized something. He wasn't moving anymore, nor was he dancing. I watched in horror as the distant shape of him grew larger and larger. He was coming back my way. And this time he was running.
I ran too.
I ran until I was off of the side-road and back onto a better lit road with sparse traffic. Looking behind me then, he was nowhere to be found. The rest of the way home, I kept glancing over my shoulder, always expecting to see his stupid smile, but he was never there. I lived in that city for six months after that night, and I never went out for another walk. There was something about his face that always haunted me. He didn’t look drunk, he didn’t look he did drugs. He looked completely and utterly