The shadow stalked him and he knew it. Its presence loomed over his whole being and overwhelmed his senses. It prevented him from rest, dominated his thoughts, created a feeling of utter helplessness that naught could dispel. Only in the sunshine was he safe, but he also feared the light's adverse effect on his health. For he was a pale, gaunt man with a haggard countenance and an emaciated frame that reflected years of self-ignorance.

He was an apothecary of sorts, one who might be called upon for a love philter or an herbal remedy. His life was dedicated to researching the uses of the many plants that grew thereabouts. He knew each blossom, each leaf, each bark, each root or seed, as well as their applications. Rosemary soothes head pains, yarrow poultice relieves swelling and infections, agrimony eases one to sleep, and so forth. He had journals full of notations on which mosses were workable, which toadstools were poisonous, what a particular bark could be used for. But such whole-hearted dedication has its price, and his was that he lost contact with other people. Indeed, they came to him for advice and concoctions, but his happiness lay in that green world of botany.

He first felt his end nearing as he made one of his nightly trips to the forest to gather samples. The moon shone weakly, its waning face periodically covered by black clouds which draped over the night sky. The tall trees rose around him, long arms reaching over him protectively. The path underfoot was barely worn, as he did not take the same journey each time. This path curved many times around great trunks and bushes, and what lay before was often hidden by unmoving trees and the evening mists. Almost no light reached to this place, creating a somber world separate from that of the busy town life.

As he passed through the forest, he paused periodically to examine some odd leaf or twig. He delighted in his knowledge, for there was not a single bush, leaf, tree, stem that he did not recognize. And then he realized--he had no more to do. What else was there in his life? His entire goal had been to learn every plant; having accomplished that, there was nothing more.

Frantically he searched the forest, foraging for some mushroom or twig that he did not know. But he found none.

It was then that he felt it. The forest which had always been his haven was suddenly more sinister, a shade darker. The shadows congealed and created grotesque forms hidden from the light. One in particular seemed to separate itself from the collective darkness. He imagined he could see it move, crossing swiftly towards him.

Faced with this unnamed horror, he turned and fled back to the city. Whether he fled from the shadow or from his complete knowledge, it is irrelevant, but it is sure that, had he the chance, he would abandon that same knowledge and begin again. He moved about aimlessly along the roads and alleys, searching in vain for some place to escape his fears. From doorway to streetlamp he dashed, blindly seeking some way to lose his shadowy pursuer--

--but there it was again, relentlessly advancing, and he felt as trapped as a small mouse in a cage. He stood transfixed, watching the strange dark creature writhing horribly closer--closer--and then it stopped its dreadful advancement. Surprised, but by no means dismayed, he glanced about and saw that he stood directly under the streetlamp, where no shadow reached save his own. At that moment the shadow slipped away.

He allowed himself a brief moment to let his sense utterly loose; his thoughts drifted away, unneeded, and his eyes closed in relief. He curled his long body around the streetlight and slept dreamlessly and restlessly.

The next morning he was awakened by the unfiltered sun shining directly into his eyes. He shuddered and stood, automatically moving back towards the shadowy comfort of the side roads--and then halted as he remembered the events that had transpired the night past which had led to his strange sleeping-place. He drew back from the shadows as one repulsed and hurried to the town square.

The town square was not a busy place, for the market was some distance to the south and no businesses had their fronts opening here. Therefore it was a common area for lovers to rendezvous or an artist to lay thoughtfully staring at the clouds. This day was a bright and cheerful day for those innocents, and they walked about with life to their steps and a ready smile. The only aberrant figure was that of the apothecary, which seemed to shrink away from the light with distaste and was the only drably clothed figure visible.

The apothecary forced himself to spend long periods in the sun, safe from the clutches of that horrid shadow thing. But his body began to reveal his inner torment, as his already thin resources were stretched to the limit. His constant fear and agony were reflected in his eyes, and anyone who chanced to peer into them turned away with a shiver, returning to their gaiety with a slightly subdued manner.

He noticed none of this, so inwardly turned were his thoughts. He spent the day contemplating the purpose of the shadow. At first, his fear of it had been instinctual, the kind of fear one experiences after dousing the light and finding oneself surrounded by utter darkness, the kind of fear that seems ludicrous, maudlin in retrospect. But such mindless unreasoning had transmuted itself to the firm belief that it was out to get him. He flinched at every noise, every sight, real or imagined. He knew, as he knew that the sun shone and the plants grew, that the shadow-creature sought his death. And sought it mercilessly.

The night drew steadily nearer, and with it, the return of the shadow. The apothecary grew ever more restless, wringing his hands and tearing at his hair. He watched with despair in his heart as the baleful red sun disappeared all too quickly behind the distant hills. It occurred to him to seek out his home. In a fearful and dreamlike state he walked, fixed upon that purpose to the exclusion of all else. It may be a reflection of his state of mind that such a small goal could so overtake all others. But there is a great need when near the end of one's lifetime for some familiar element to be close at hand, an unreasoning drive for something known when facing the unknown.

As he passed in front of the old, broken-down church, he paused to listen to a haunting melody, straining to make out the words to the mournful dirge:

Through this everlasting night,
loneliness pervades the soul,
and all the angels take flight;
stars dim within the sky's bowl. . . .

Along the twisting, winding path
solemn figures may be seen--
unbroken by the awful wrath,
unshaken by the gruesome scene.

The spirit trembles at knowing
and quails in the face of such
that only now is showing
and only now means much--

And it abruptly stopped. He gasped and grasped the gate to regain his balance, so caught had he been in the music which expressed his fear so well. From the corner of his eye, he saw something move--something that was so alien to him (and yet so familiar) that it cut right to his soul. He hurried onward to the house. He glanced behind and thought he could see it yet following him. His eyes darted nervously ahead, exploring the hidden shadows for a path around them. In a short time, he came up on his house, fumbled with the door, scrambled inside, and slammed the door behind himself.

His house was very small, for his was not an especially rich profession. He had few belongings: a sturdy oak table, once colorful but now faded rugs, a brass-framed mirror, a mahogany cabinet, and so forth. His favorite possession was a red velvet chair which had once been owned by his grandmother. It molded perfectly to his long body and the velvet seemed to surround him comfortingly. He often slept there rather than his bed, which was a foot too short. The mahogany cabinet held all of the medications he'd prepared for himself, used to relieve any of the myriad ailments which periodically afflicted his body and soul.

He moved about the house, lighting each room in turn to chase away the shadowed stalker. He sat in his red velvet chair and pulled his knees up to his chest. His back rigid, he stared into all the corners of the chamber, straining to see a hint of that shadow--but found none, much to his relief.

He knew he could not continue in this manner. His peaceful, plant-collecting life had been shattered by the shadow. No, he could not go on like this--but did he want to go on at all? In no way could he return to his life before; and if he could, he did not want to, for he had no purpose or direction.

It was apparent that the shadow would search for him endlessly, and when it caught him--he faced death at the hands of the unknown. He could not know the manner of his death, but felt certain it would be horrible. A plan formed in his mind--he stood and went to his cabinet. At length he pulled out an old remedy--a potion made from the foxglove plant. A small portion of digitalis could help quell the tremblings of a weak heart, but too much stills it altogether. He paced across the room, the vial of heart-stopping poison in his hand.

"If I should somehow outwit this vague terror, what then? There is nothing more for me here. I am not needed as a teacher; my notes carry all of my wisdom, making me superfluous. I could journey to a new place with new herbs--but what of me then, when I identify all those plants? The shadow would return. All speculations aside, this shadow will not rest until it has accomplished my death. Oh, the tireless shadow that haunts me--it will wait, it will have me. Unless--"

He quit his despairing pacing and stared at the vial in his hand. A hope, a respite--or another form of the same terror? But no, it was not death he was afraid of--it was the unknown pursuer and the unknown death that so badly frightened him. He uncorked the bottle and, after a slight hesitation, downed the contents.

He felt the poison spreading through his limbs, back to his heart, circulating around his body and leaving trails of death behind it. He knew then, with all certainty, that he had outsmarted the shadow and escaped his clutches. He began to laugh, at first low and soft, but growing in intensity until it filled the room.

The mad laughter pealed about, a clear sound in the night, ringing off the faces of the buildings, echoing and re-echoing before finally and painfully dying out. But nary a soul stirred at this clamor, nary a dog barked or whined, nary a light was lit. The only action to be seen--had there been someone to see it--was that of a dark shadow, which hung its eerily black head and quietly melted away into the night.