Grave
by W.C. Mallery
Somewhere Far Distant in Place and Time
I
With a weariness that the groans of a hundred
tormented souls could not have produced, a massive oak
door slowly opened and the figure of a man, distinct in all
physical features yet equally vague and apparitional,
entered the room. A hand, bony and nearly diaphanous,
pointed unsteadily in the general direction of a chair
positioned alongside the fireplace and a dying fire. The
fingers of the hand were bent, as if they were no longer
capable of achieving a straight line,
“You are Dr. Wertenberg?” I asked.
His eyes closed and his head bowed almost
imperceptibly in acknowledgement. The old gentleman
was dressed in formal attire, high collar, striped trousers
and black cutaway, a gray waistcoat with dark piping along
the lapels. Across his chest was a brightly colored sash of
some unknown royal order. The garments were in good
repair but belonged to an age that had expired well before
my existence had begun.
The air in the room was heavy with the scent of
ash and charred oak. Despite the terminal stages of the
fire, the room was very warm and I had begun to perspire.
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