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to things untitled… a story

The mystery started with a bloodletting that was not too much planned for even though these kinds of strange events were routine in this side of the nightmare, the dream was now a solid reality by this time in the story, but the phantoms had lingered far before this chapter as if the story unfolds only when i say it will. The person in which whose blood was then being let out into the brass goblet custom-made by them, and for this exact purpose and in this exact velvet-lined of antechambers deep inside the labyrinth of halls and corridors, subtly separating the practical world from a dozen or so doors opening out to this series of rooms each more narrow than the last, and an utterly realized blueprint for a ritual bloodletting such as this. Only raw shadow distorted by the uncommon candle flicker left or leaped in crude fashion as a raw spark of life to release its ability to illuminate these so-quiet passages just enough for anyone there to navigate that labyrinthine stretch, as though shadows alive and selective as to whom can merely stroll through, and not be affected by least of all a shiver down the spine. A crawling deliverance of purely corruption echoing control silently, patiently if in wait for the right timing perhaps a wanderer or as the scholar, a searcher or a seeker of fortunes posed to die murder or kill from the core of the being in deliberate steps moving a slow pace. As the terror of suspense might build before the scary monsters attack in the omnipresent thrust of digesting prey praying to stay alive or a little sane at least to survive the natural dead state and awake as that ghost or lonely soul, and a lurching mind low empty kinetic servant for hopeful poison of the soul craving to devour and deform a not-uncommon situation though not a necessary nemesis useful to their misfit mastermind whose goals of a conquering type of desolation takes shape through the others, hidden until the circuit complete finally and so virally finds awareness in compulsion sinister and manipulating the simplest thing that seemed to be real or part conscious animal gone stray lost running through these old halls of madness most unreal, then caught in the grip of a horrid force completely a choice of their own gone a bit too far beyond as these steps thought right sudden to reach the wrong paths in the company of other dead things gone back into life after being consciously torn from the familiar and safe, but perhaps too safe hate locked away as much beast sheltered into domesticated placated illusion born told to suffer instead of joining the routine faith of blind violence and destructively-painful consistency killing all creations with oblivion eating the screaming living mind of a suddenly-recognized place now vacuum of stale frozen fear as the blade or call of death whispers too quietly though heard by all things alive and dead, and held here in this crypt without guide or safety from the harsh banality that can eventually like a curse of cancerous or the unwilling servant of doom suddenly a step away in the shadows playing against the walls of those corridors within the parameter of nightmare gone too real as then in awful certainty awakes deeper in the soul than before appears a clouded cataract revealed to finalize though not to be finish to that ritual of spilling blood as potentially and profanely-accepted a point of everyday motions lull us all into a safety pitfall of atrocity too all at once close enough lost.