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The door slammed shut and Crispin was alone in the cellar, the damp wood of the
stairs beneath him; the cold, crumbling brick against his back; the darkness seemed
to coat his eyes in thick, black ink.
He stopped crying; instantly. Once the door was shut, it wasn't wise to cry. It wasn't
wise to make any noise at all, because, as always, something had arrived with the
darkness. Crispin could hear it, panting, growling, pacing, somewhere at the bottom
of the stairs. He heard taps of talons on the steps, each clack louder than the last.
He let out a shrill scream, but was cut short by his own tragic death.
 Turts · Sat Mar 24, 2012 @ 07:28am · 0 Comments |
