Asher slept restlessly in the leather chair in the hearth room of The Haunt. The pipe in his hand had gone out.
He was being devoured, as though from the inside. He could not see the force that sucked his life away, but he could feel his breath grow shallow, feel the cold seep into his hands and feet. He tried to get up, but he couldn’t move his limbs. He tried to call for help, but he could make no sound. His body had abandoned his will, and his mind could not command their union. As his vision drained away at the corners, like a shutter closing over a lens, he was aware of dying. Aware of such a thing as death, of falling to oblivion in pieces, and, in that instant, aware of sleeping. [read this story at MYTHOLOG]
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