The Golden Cellar
The blade was slick with blood that was not mine. I held the door. My back pressed against the cold oak. The hinges screamed. A low moan rose from the cellar stairs. I tightened my grip on the iron bar. My knuckles whitened. "Stay back," I said. My voice shook. I hated the shake. I am a sergeant of the night watch. I do not shake. Not here. Not in this house. The thing on the stairs did not...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews