Although my mind was still hazy with sleep, I knew there were spirits close to me in the darkness. Between my thighs, I recognized the hot, tingling dampness of arousal, but I was too tired to gather the confused, torn, and fading scraps of dreams together. Some insubstantial thing was sliding against my mind, my person, trying to enter, or re-enter. The spirits in the darkness with me—I thought there was more than one—weren’t the remains of the dead, they were like sentient pockets of emotion built up over years, centuries until they had being and will of their own. Most of all, I sensed lust, wild and avid, mingled with some contortion of love into an angry, spiteful mess that felt frighteningly malevolent. My encounter with Patrick, my urgent, hard-fought desires, must have drawn them to me. With a shudder, I thought last night’s much more vivid dream could have come from them too. Struggling, I dragged my barriers into place.
What do You think about The Dead Of Haggard Hall (2016)?
