The candle flickers.
It begins.
Low chanting fills the cramped space, the sound muffled and
distorted, like a dozen whispering monks at prayer.
Ironic.
Chalk dust, irritated by a thin draft, coats the edge of a
ancient robe. Tendrils of shadow rise, brushing the crumbs aside.
The candle flickers.
The flame leaps, doubling in height. At its core, it is
white as fresh snow, darkening to an inky black as it strives to reach the
ceiling, selfish and hungry.
Melodious chiming fills the air in a regular beat. A call. A
demand.
The candle flickers.
They come.
