The Golden Visit
The clock ticked. It was a wet, heavy sound. Like a drop of blood hitting a stone floor. You stood in the center of the room. The walls were close. They pressed in. The air tasted of rust and old paper. You knew what you had to do. You knew it with the certainty of a bone breaking. The building was old. It breathed. The bricks shifted. A low hum vibrated in your teeth. It was a machine made of...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen