Death Token

I have exhumed, from the defective deformity of fallible things, laid to inconspicuous waste, a rather unpleasant sentiment. It is an unwholesome, inscrutable feeling, however, I must say, it is much like an ingressing, puncture of a villainous needle into the bosom, transfusing all the venom of the earth, with leisurely ease. There are things, ineffable things, which in their insufferable nature, we endure in reticence, but ultimately the common ephemeral horror of healthy predicament is not to be mistaken, with the fear of death. I remember now, I do not suffer from the desultory mechanism of anxiety, or the intrusion of naive prejudice, there is something ...it haunts me, like the scythe of the moribund. It was last night that I saw it, protruding into my precinct, with only a muddy limb, suspending an object at its extremity. I stalked its moon illuminated fingers, as they arrested the string of what seemed to be a pendant. It was in a cadence of refined, hypnotic motion and the ensuing words, which were slurred into the subdued, hiss of a woman, disturbed the silence. They were. 

"A token for the dead sir" I quenched my clogged throat with a heaving gulp, in vain as I gazed, from the window in the north west, the shining cynosure. I shrieked when its chatoyance subdued, in its spinning axis, and before an interval of refraction i deciphered, from an uncanny shadow, the miniature head of a chimpanzee, with a large cycloptic eye. It receded into the darkness, by the guide of the hand, but I fear, it has obscurely cursed my spirit, and my days are hitherto numbered.