The bright light from the flame attracts me. It cuts through the dark shadows with a blinding ease. As the wind outside echoes its eerie whisper, the flame quietly sings along. There are shapes in the shadows, dancing to the flame's hypnotic call. The shadow-dwellers seem to giggle as they stretch and reach out, elongated fingers pointing and bending at the candlelight's whim. A tap on the window freezes everything for a split second. Blood runs cold. Heart pounds. Skin crawls. Breath becomes both shallow and deep. The soft, breathy whistle cut short by a piercing scream. The darkness falls silent. The candlelight, no more.
The Mansionic Perspective 
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