søndag den 20. marts 2011

A Dark Room

    A cold breeze made the ripped and turn curtains stir, letting in a pale beam of moonlight for a moment before falling still again. If someone had been there to see (there wasn't, not any more), they would have seen a prone figure lying face-up on the ground. A man with graying temples and a dark stubble. His eyes were open. His heart was still and lifeless. He clutched a glass bottle in his hand, the dried remnants of wine still resting in the bottom. A half-burnt candle stood on his desk, long strands of wax hanging from its side. 
    An air of desperation and resentment permeated the piles of paper and black and white photographs. A shattered mirror hung on the wall. It had once been covered by a white cloth, but no more. Despite the man's precautions, something came through. Once he had realized what he had set in motion, he tried to stop it. He hadn't been strong enough. He had learned things he should not have learned. He had been a fool. And he had paid for it most dearly. 
    Now there was no hope for man. The Faceless One had entered their world. Soon it would be his.

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