cigarette. “Doesn’t appear too concerned, does he?”
Wells started to walk around the room, looking at several other books, magazines, and recipe boxes that had Gilbert Lex’s picture on them. He shook his head with disgust.
“The words you’re looking for, Detective Wells, are ‘does not give a fuck’,” Wells said, patiently waiting.
Wells heard a strange noise down the hall from where he was standing. The sounds of tiny feet trotting across the wooden floorboards. Girl steps. The detective went off to investigate. In the kitchen, behind his door, Wells could hear Lex laughing and continuing his conversation with his agent.
“What the hell’s going on here in this house?” Wells asked, feeling uneasy about what he thought he had heard.
The sound of footsteps got louder.
The sounds were coming from the basement.
Wells wished that he had brought his gun.
* * *
The basement door was ajar.
As Wells started to walk through the home, looking around he noticed the slightly open door and started to walk toward it. Behind him, and not seen by him, the silent specter of the Shape waited, glaring down at him from the hallway.
:You are in my world now! Be extra careful where you step.:
As Wells got closer to the door, he noticed that an uneasy feeling was coming over him. A feeling of being watched. Like a suspected felon being observed through a two-way mirror. Wells could feel the eyes on him. Wells did not like it at all.
Unknown to Wells, the Shape was following him. Her angry white eyes glared at the police officer, almost burning a hole in the back of his head, with a degree of emotion that was silently bombarded in his general direction.
Wells touched the doorknob of the basement door.
A cool wind attacked the detective from behind.
The Shape disappeared.
* * *
There was a force about the house which was aware of the danger it was in by being discovered by an unwanted visitor. The house did not like intruders and was not prepared in its present state to ward the detective off. Lex had provided the mansion with a much-needed portal to achieve its goals and this vital asset could not be wasted. Not just yet.
So intelligence far too old or powerful to be ignored took hold and started to take on a life of its own.
Had Wells known&had he seen&he would not have been able to understand.
Wells would have only gone mad in the attempt.
So it was best that the detective did not know that he had come so close to dying in the house that day.
So close.
* * *
A bloodied hand reached up out of the basement’s darkness, foul and dripping with the scent of the dead, and grabbed the door’s doorknob. With a hard pull, the bloody hand slammed the door shut. There was the rumbling sound of people talking in the basement. Hundreds of voices. All terribly sad. All wanting to escape. None could. None knew how.
There were the thunderous sounds of torturous creatures screaming in the darkness, covered by the subtle sounds of rustling plastic. Somehow, an evil force was moving the detective along, making him go where it wished for him to go and no farther.
The Bloody Hand, knowing of the approaching detective, slowly dropped back into the deadly abyss from which it had arisen, letting go of the doorknob.
* * *
The detective approached the door, noticing that it did indeed shut before he could reach it. He stared at it, knowing that he did not have a search warrant to investigate-something in him wanted to grab the doorknob, but all he could do was stare down at it. Something from the corner of his eye caught his attention.
:Here’s a little gift for a curious blowfly. See what you can do with it!:
On the floor near the basement door, Wells could see a simple candy wrapper.
“What have we got here?” the detective said, holding back the level of excitement growing inside of him. He almost smiled.
Wells picked up the candy bar wrapper, investigating it. It was the kind of wrapper used by charity
Wells started to walk around the room, looking at several other books, magazines, and recipe boxes that had Gilbert Lex’s picture on them. He shook his head with disgust.
“The words you’re looking for, Detective Wells, are ‘does not give a fuck’,” Wells said, patiently waiting.
Wells heard a strange noise down the hall from where he was standing. The sounds of tiny feet trotting across the wooden floorboards. Girl steps. The detective went off to investigate. In the kitchen, behind his door, Wells could hear Lex laughing and continuing his conversation with his agent.
“What the hell’s going on here in this house?” Wells asked, feeling uneasy about what he thought he had heard.
The sound of footsteps got louder.
The sounds were coming from the basement.
Wells wished that he had brought his gun.
* * *
The basement door was ajar.
As Wells started to walk through the home, looking around he noticed the slightly open door and started to walk toward it. Behind him, and not seen by him, the silent specter of the Shape waited, glaring down at him from the hallway.
:You are in my world now! Be extra careful where you step.:
As Wells got closer to the door, he noticed that an uneasy feeling was coming over him. A feeling of being watched. Like a suspected felon being observed through a two-way mirror. Wells could feel the eyes on him. Wells did not like it at all.
Unknown to Wells, the Shape was following him. Her angry white eyes glared at the police officer, almost burning a hole in the back of his head, with a degree of emotion that was silently bombarded in his general direction.
Wells touched the doorknob of the basement door.
A cool wind attacked the detective from behind.
The Shape disappeared.
* * *
There was a force about the house which was aware of the danger it was in by being discovered by an unwanted visitor. The house did not like intruders and was not prepared in its present state to ward the detective off. Lex had provided the mansion with a much-needed portal to achieve its goals and this vital asset could not be wasted. Not just yet.
So intelligence far too old or powerful to be ignored took hold and started to take on a life of its own.
Had Wells known&had he seen&he would not have been able to understand.
Wells would have only gone mad in the attempt.
So it was best that the detective did not know that he had come so close to dying in the house that day.
So close.
* * *
A bloodied hand reached up out of the basement’s darkness, foul and dripping with the scent of the dead, and grabbed the door’s doorknob. With a hard pull, the bloody hand slammed the door shut. There was the rumbling sound of people talking in the basement. Hundreds of voices. All terribly sad. All wanting to escape. None could. None knew how.
There were the thunderous sounds of torturous creatures screaming in the darkness, covered by the subtle sounds of rustling plastic. Somehow, an evil force was moving the detective along, making him go where it wished for him to go and no farther.
The Bloody Hand, knowing of the approaching detective, slowly dropped back into the deadly abyss from which it had arisen, letting go of the doorknob.
* * *
The detective approached the door, noticing that it did indeed shut before he could reach it. He stared at it, knowing that he did not have a search warrant to investigate-something in him wanted to grab the doorknob, but all he could do was stare down at it. Something from the corner of his eye caught his attention.
:Here’s a little gift for a curious blowfly. See what you can do with it!:
On the floor near the basement door, Wells could see a simple candy wrapper.
“What have we got here?” the detective said, holding back the level of excitement growing inside of him. He almost smiled.
Wells picked up the candy bar wrapper, investigating it. It was the kind of wrapper used by charity
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