A Short Story Concept Board

It was all happening again.
He knew better though, this time around. The first time was something of a blur now, but even still he could remember the tingling feeling in his limbs, heavy and stiff, a feeling which he was now so akin to, willing or not. He tried to look the figure in the face, but all he could see was shadows, and more shadows, and even more shadows the harder he tried to make out any features. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and concentrated. Another deep breath, and he thrust himself up from the bed, where his body was still sleeping. Again he felt the strange coldness of his sleeping body, which he was now completely apart from, and tried to stand still on what felt like weightless feet.
Turning slowly to the figure, he stared into the shadows beneath it's veiled head. Cautiously, trying not the overcome himself in shivers, he reached for the hood of the figure. Patience, he reminded himself, as his trembling fingers touched the woolen hood. So slowly he pulled back the material from the figures head and stared into the eyes of...
"Mr. Rye, are you up yet," sounded a voice as he was all but sucked back into his sleeping self. He shot up from the bed, searching for the source, only to hear the sound of footsteps padding away outside of his door, and a letter slipped beneath it. The room was small, barely even considered a closet from what he was use to back home, but quite the commodity for the near nothing he had been paying for it the past few settis.
Rubbing the dust out of his eyes, and combing back hair with hands, he swung his feet to the side of the bed. No light was coming through the window just yet--still too early to leave the premises. Stretching, he got up with a yawn that made his jaws crack, and took a step to pick up the letter. Still a little groggy, he took another step to the makeshift desk, graciously provided by the hostel owners, and sat down. Thinking of the short, Simio owners warmed him up, if only for a breif moment. Fumbling around in the drawer for his last set of matches, he lit the lamp, fittingly small for the room, and nearly burned himself as he read the name on the seal of the letter.
'care to Riordan Deloria'

Dearest Riordan,

Did you honestly think you could run forever? In best tidings it would be for you not to run now, seeing as you must know we would not send this as a warning, but as notification that we are already here. Why are you doing this to yourself? What would your dear mother have thought, or have you forgotten of her drear demise already? Why run from something you can't escape? Keep dreaming, dear friend, for dreams are all you have left.

Signed,
The Keeper's Hand

Damn! How do they know, already?...Damn! He shot up, then, glancing swiftly around the room for his travelpak. Breifly making sure everything was still in check, he slipped on a tunic and pants, being careful not to make a sound, and reached under the desk for his shoes. Finally clasping the last strap, he peered through the blinds: just three feet of roof footing available, but it'd do. An alleyway was just below, but even it was too open--he must not be seen, by any. Breathing deep and long, he focused on the inner light, breathing in the hollowness of the still dark outside, and breathing out the bright light that would give him away. He was not afraid, but he was aware of the inept abuility that every breathing thing honed--the feeling of eyes and the feeling of not being alone--that would give him away to those who did and did not seek him. He could not risked being sensed, he could not. He needed to be one with the night, and nothing more than a shadow.
Queitly slipping out of the window, he creeped along the rooftop, as stealth as a squirell on a clothing line, to the back corner of the hostel. Looking one way and then another, he swung down and landed on the patch of grass he had anticipated would be there. Sun be thanked for Simio superstition, he thought as he padded through the grass. Keeping a grass garden was a well known tradition by the Simios to ward off ill-thoughts from a household. To bad that superstition hadn't held true tonight.

To be continued...