Kermit the Hermit

Kermit the Green-Skinned Hermit was...solitary. He had lived for decades in a forest-consumed cottage, a dense canopy of leaves concealing it. His isolation was his gem; nature was his comfort. Moss crept along it like a spreading virus, and his green complexion synced in eerie tandem.  A familiar chorus of crickets and rustling leaves filled the air.

Suddenly, the familiar woodland sounds were no more. No leaves roused themselves despite the pale moon’s watchful eye. Silence, far from peaceful, was a suffocating shroud; the ticking clock was jarringly obscene. The forest held its breath as an odd, discomfiting stillness oppressed the cottage walls.

The odd silence seeped through the cottage walls, a rejected visitor. The walls inhaled and exhaled; freshly disturbed earth released foul, measured breaths beneath peeling wallpaper. A clammy chill stuck to Kermit’s green skin, cloying.

The armchair inched closer to him, crouching in the moonlight. An invisible weight sank into the weathered cushion, creating a hollow impression in its majestic velvet.  As its wooden legs made the floorboards squeal, an invisible occupant claimed its place.

Kermit touched his skin; it was frigid. He drew another breath, listening intently to the armchair’s invisible occupant. The breath felt trapped within his lungs.

There were TWO breaths. One dreadful rhythm.

The cushion sank another inch. His solitude now had a second heartbeat; one he never requested.

Something had discovered the rhythm of his being. What? He didn’t want to know.

For Mikeydred's October Challenge