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	Turt's Journal
	Turt's Journal

	Crispin in the cellar
	Crispin in the cellar


The door slammed shut and Crispin was alone in the cellar, the damp wood of the stairs beneath him; the cold, crumbling brick against his back; the darkness seemed to coat his eyes in thick, black ink. He stopped crying; instantly. Once the door was shut, it wasn't wise to cry. It wasn't wise to make any noise at all, because, as always, something had arrived with the darkness. Crispin could hear it, panting, growling, pacing, somewhere at the bottom of the stairs. He heard taps of talons on the steps, each clack louder than the last. He let out a shrill scream, but was cut short by his own tragic death. Turts · Sat Mar 24, 2012 @ 07:28am · 0 Comments


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