The Dark Sire Issue 1 (Fall 2019) | Page 14

That glorious taste, the tranquilizing warmth and rapture that it produced. And then, nothing. Sleep. Dreams. There was, likewise, a bizarre quality to the dreams and something oddly ethereal. I remember bells or chimes clearly sounding in the background, distinctly audible between the sounds of low moans and fierce howls in a thick fog. The wind blew in my dreams. Was it the same wind that rushed through the window of my prison? I struggled against the bindings but found that I was somewhat weakened in strength as well as in spirit. Yet, despite this lack of energy, my head was clear and unafflicted, albeit fuzzy on the details of my immediate conscious past. Why was I a prisoner? What had laid me so low? Was it the whiskey? Dr. Wertenberg, I recalled, had not tasted it in my presence. Or was it the dreams? Or a combination of the two? I tried to recall the fantastic visions that had filled my sleep. It was vital that I focus my mind. I shut my eyes and tried to recall what I could of the previous evening. They hadn't been closed for more than a minute when I became conscious of a stillness in the room. The breeze that had been blowing so strenuously through the open window ceased. The tattered curtains no longer fluttered. When I opened my eyes, Dr. Wertenberg was standing before me. It being night, the light was exceedingly dim. The only illumination in the room came from the stub of a candle mounted in a brass candle holder that Wertenberg held at chest level. He wore a long, plum colored dressing 12