The hand plunging through the glass. Nails rending flesh, blood rising hot and thick and smelling like copper. Mud and the stench of decay as she heaves herself across the glass barrier. Snarling, her upper lip curved, a tendril of yellow spittle dribbling down her chin. The slits of nostrils flaring as she catching her prey’s scent.
The darkness has a face.
Gray skin stretched over a craggy skull, black veins pulsing at the temples and cheeks. It has no nose, no lips – only voids crusted with liquid decay. Broken teeth jut up from the gums like yellow stalagmites. A white, wormlike tongue wags to taste the air. Tufts of hair top half-rotted ears, leaves and debris tangled in the elbow-length strands.
The darkness has a voice. Sometimes it’s wet, like pipes choking through a clog. Other times it’s dry and slithery, like snake scales gliding over rock. It depends on whether she’s laughing. Mary likes to laugh, but only if she’s bled someone. That’s when the raspiest rattles echo from her throat.
This short novella is placed before all the events that happen in Shutter. I do have to say that I love the names. Trigger. Shutter. And it all fits the story so well.
