They were whispering about him again. Throughout the offices of his small law practice, his subordinates were speaking in hushed tones and glancing sidelong in his direction. He couldn't blame them - he had certainly not been in his best form of late. Under normal circumstances he invariably wore impeccably tailored three-piece suits, and kept his meticulously parted hair neatly combed to the right. But today, his wrinkled slacks and untucked cotton shirt bore a stark contrast to his typical attention to sartorial detail. His hair was greasy and tousled, and he hadn't shaved in two days, imparting a rough, unkempt aspect to his countenance.

Most of his staff probably suspected that he had fallen off the wagon again. His periodic bouts with alcoholism were no secret to his employees - a very common concern among lawyers who succumb to the long hours and intense stress of the vocation. But in truth he hadn't taken a drink in weeks, though the urge to do so had certainly risen immensely for the past several days.

Over the last week he had probably spent more time sleeping than during any similar period in the past two decades, and yet his mind felt worn and utterly exhausted, as if he had been completely sleep deprived throughout that entire interval. His recently troubled bouts with rest seemingly left him feeling more tired the longer he lay. And the nightmares -oh, the nightmares! Their memory haunted his waking mind to no end, robbing him of all concentration and focus during the day just as surely as they sapped every night of peace. It was clearly taking a severe toll.

He had already concluded that he was losing his mind. What else could account for the hallucinations? Wherever he went, he felt unseen eyes peering at him from every darkened corner. Shadows seemed to undulate and ambulate of their own volition, and dark bestial shapes stalked the periphery of his field of vision.

He had a fainting spell around noon. He knew this because the physician who had been summoned to his office informed him of it upon rousing him with smelling salts. He pulled the bewildered doctor into his office, and with wild eyes recounted his experience over the past week, at one point breaking down into a sobbing fit. He described the visions, the chronic exhaustion, and the foggy, dissociating erosion of cognition and memory that harried his wakefulness. And he recounted his nightmares, which were the same every night. He was always running, chased by some malign spirit that he could never quite see, but could always feel bearing down on him. No matter how fast he ran, his pursuer would ultimately gain ground. By the end of the dream long steely fingers would seize him; his final sight before being ejected, mercifully, from sleep being of that terrible visage - an ancient, leathery face-which-was-not-a-face, that bore down upon his own expressing an insatiable hunger from beyond time and space.

Having never encountered symptomatology of this kind, the physician had no clear explanation for his problems. Following a physical examination that revealed no particular ailments other than exhaustion, he suggested that perhaps Winston was overworked, and recommended taking an immediate vacation to sort things out. If in a week things had not cleared up, he would refer him to a psychologist who might better understand Winston's predicament. Winston pleaded for something that would ease his suffering, and the doctor prescribed a tonic to be taken every night before bed to "settle the humours." With that the physician departed, abandoning Winston to his troubles.

Winston closed up the office and instructed his carriage to drive him home. His arrival at the darkened estate, usually a welcome sight, was now foreboding, given his sudden and acute onset of sciophobia. Steeling his heart, he ventured inside, being sure to light a candle in every room. Feeling the now-familiar weariness overtake him, he retired to his study, hoping that a good book might relax his nerves. So exhausted was he, that even as he heard the rustling of motion behind him he made no move to get up and confront the intruder. He simply let the cold darkness envelop him, and surrendered his broken spirit to that terrible face-which-was-not-a-face.

Which greedily accepted.

*******

Another phenomenal illustration by the sensational Sansart (http://www.furaffinity.net/user/sansart/ )!