Hi, my first work here in fiction press, I've written a lot but never really published any. Albeit most of them are plays.

This one is from one of my many. Anyway, enjoy.

The Stifling hand

Chapter 1 (not really)

Red. "I see red" muttered Abimelik, letting loose yet another batch of warm air from his lungs, his lips tasting the yielding hotness. However, the to the warmth he held on so tight, with its weight worth more than gold in this blizzard, it had mattered less. His eyes saw red yet again, wet red. Fumbling for the inhaler, the short man unhinged himself from the metal railing that ran by his side. Apparently not aware of when he even grabbed on to something, for his mind was still exhilarated from the red. Abimelik, on one knee pondered on his choices. Steadying himself up, the roaring whirlwind was no less than his dictator, he was far from home. Yet his mind seemed to dance on death's porch, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Exhilarated, he knew he had made it.

A crackle here and a sudden sink there, followed by the ugly crank of metal, bending under it's centuries of wear. His trance was undoubtedly sundered, if not barely. Immediately grabbing onto the metal railing once more, Abimelik saved himself an easy death and took a step back to the edge of the bridge that met the sea of snow, the latter path equally daunting to traverse. For beneath him lay the valley of the Union, and the Tazdohr the great mountain, with the ground spreading miles below his now uneasy footing. If he were to fall, chances were that by the time his body reached sea level he would've frozen 10 times over. An easy death as he wouldn't even feel it.

A sudden gust pushed back Abimelik another stride, its icy embrace cutting his cheeks like Ender's blades, only colder... much colder. It was like the mountains screamed at him, wailing a warning at him to turn around, and that there was no good up ahead, only temperament that a man doesn't need. But Abimelik knew better, beyond the broken metal bridge he stood on, the untamed abyss he sought for held something that stood higher above death like no other. Maddening at that he knew no less, but perhaps that's why the summit was called Mad's peak, fittingly.

The riches can be yours! Your wishes are not to be burned by Ifrit! - Arushan once said. Abimelik knew that the even the old fool knew better than to trust the fire, and left the stories of mad's peak a children's tale. Yet, here he was, crouched over his equipments, sorting through the rope-wires that Marasha wove with her own hands, he plucked out a hook from its hinge from the lofty saddle bag that hung on both sides of his waist. In doing so he realized that 2 of his fingers on his left hand had frozen over from inactivity, which was a natural queue for the amalgamation of curses that Abimelik was more than capable of producing if not for the cold that was ready to swallow the warmth inside him. At this point, the man could no longer remember the sensation of warm stimuli, the memory itself now a luxury.

After shaking off the trail of thoughts that grew within, he set upon finding a decent spot to launch his hook. A machine he carried, no bigger than a child's lunchbox had needed a sufficient amount of solid ground to anchor before being operational. Abimelik then recited the manual in his mind, whilst gazing at the white snow that ran 6 feet under. Digging was an option, albeit one that he would leave it for when he was no longer sane. Taking in a thrifty breath from the oxygen mask, the man's eyes caught glimpse of movement within the howling valley. Fidgeting to the ground, his breath froze if not already. Abimelik dared not blink, his palms sprawled across the broken metal bridge, and his body like a feline ready to pounce.

His intentions however was far from predatorial, and mistake him not, neither was it to cowardice. Amidst the rising panic and anxiety, his knowledge of the valley did grant him some confidence. For he knew that the valley of the Union was populated with extremely steep mountains, which meant that the path to each peak were coiled around the unforgiving sierra producing a spiral of a trail. The thin cobblestone that barely spanned two goblin shoulders was able to give travellers the only worry of what lay in front. The latter was one's precious behinds. In any case, as of this moment, mother nature granted a measly meter or two of vision for abimelik to work with. The rest chomped away by the blizzard, swallowing what was left of his sights.

Another shift in the white depths ahead of Abimelik caused the man to tense, the idea that something else was also approaching from behind him was slowly surfacing in his mind. His desire to look back and reassure himself was more excruciating than a man deprived of sex. Nonetheless, his mind poised forward. It ran a certain scenario over and over again. The idea of a snow leopard gnawing on his ribs for when he didn't bother to turn around bugged him to no end.

He soon succumbed to his instincts, turning around to face the phantom that his mind conjured. However, his eyes saw not of the white empty abyss, but instead it met that of which was frigid, the embodiment of the chilling fear that this mountain alone can pronounce. It was looking down upon him. A bastard's wraith was no enemy of any man, but that of man's sanity. The story behind these poor spirits ventured from times even beyond Abimelik's books. The men that were born to the witches of these valleys, they became nothing but a scapegoats for the lesser mind's anger, fear and frustration. The people of the Union would chain the witches children down, shackles to shackles and hurled stones to lashed whips. The magical mist of the valley alone, combined with the unforgettable agony harboured through the years of torture gave birth to an entity far worse than the Enders.

The wraith's stare was piercing, its features rickety and bonelike yet lofty, it gave Abimelik a run for his archival mind. He sat still, daring not to pull a muscle, wondering why the wraith had not attacked him. Or perhaps the wraiths were incapable of physical harm, but only had the capacity of driving a person mad by instilling their memory into their victim. The man was aware of that fact alone is far worse than decapitation or hyperthermia. He wondered if maybe it had sensed the immense heat within him, recognizing the fearful features of his mind yet also aware of his scorching potential.

Or at least he had hoped as the wraith dove for him, its screams rasp and eerie. Instinctively, his left palm shot up, his arms held straight at the spiralling being. Confidence and fear fought over the short lived anticipation as the wraith finally halted its charge. Its eyes... no, hollowed sockets no bigger than pool ball seemed bewildered for the brief moment of still air. Screams were shot and images twisted, the wraith was no more. Its existence sucked into Abimelik's left hand, leaving a hollow cask of snow in the air as it fell to the cobblestone.

to be continued?

It's still technically still a one shot, but if y'all like it. I'll write some more.