Kurtz-
On Friday last (the thirteenth, of course!), our night twisted to a terrifying end. The dread that would find us that night was an inky shadow, brought into sharp relief by the warm, cozy glow of friendship we enjoyed earlier that evening.
We began on a familiar path to annual festivities. We were eager to pay respects, to swap stories, confident in being graciously received despite our failing to secure the proper gift for the occasion:
Dancing ensued. The Evil Count of Walgrove Manor was notably absent, though the break-dancing Baron of the same was both present and lively. The Man of the Hour even shared with us a recipe of ancient and proud Danish tradition: an apple pie baked in a brown paper bag! Such pie has never been known by our company, nor will ever be surpassed!
The hour grew late. As we engaged felicity and made final farewells, a chill touched our skin. The mysteries began. A missing rabbit, straight from its hutch? An unknown glow? The peculiarities grew! A haunting air in our ears, and what's that on the ground?...nothing...no, the mind only, both active and devious...but further on, a name from the past, a memory. Baker? Bakersfield? No, Baskerville. And on the ground, clearly now, a suggestion, an imprint...a footprint! The imprint of an enormous hound!
Run! No, hide! Cower and breath softly, and wish upon wish that this too will pass! The peril did pass, but not the haunt, not the dreams, which pursue us still, baying in our sleeping ears.
- Marlowe
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