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The Prolapse Of The Упырь, After The Fiction Of C. Krasnorogsky
I want you to have time to be afraid of me.
I want you to have time to experience the dread of me.
I want you to feel in the very marrow of your bones the terror of me. A
gust of wind slamming against the house may disclose me: an
intermittent drip from a leaky faucet; an
ordinary creak from the rafters as the house settles.
Strange shadows thrown upon the walls by dying embers imitate me; the
sputtering of your midnight candle will suggest my proximity; the
reluctance of your limbs to move from your chair will concede the room to me.
Your throat is parched by sudden thirst, not unlike mine, but you dare not stir to
fetch the cup of refreshment, for your body is no longer yours to command. The
blood your torn throat will offer me will sustain my existence one more night. The
horror that surrounds you---that haunts your domicile---that permeates
your senses and checkmates your brain becomes the satisfaction that (for the
briefest of moments beneath the stars, which are now hidden to my gaze) shall
flood the empty crater that displays the contours of my soul---damned and already
relinquished by me.
Starward-Led
