“Op dat moment drong het afschuwelijke besef tot haar door.
Het is geen pop.
En hoewel ze dat zeker niet van plan was geweest, begon ze onbedaarlijk te gillen.”
Something lunges from our right, cutting Sinclair and me off from the rest of the group: a saint whose mournful eyes are directed toward the ceiling as he nears. What looks like real blood drips from perfectly rounded stone holes in the centers of his palms and feet, pooling on the marble floor as he moves silently toward us. Slowly, his eyes lower and focus on me, and his hands reach forward clawing the air.
Hiya everyone, good afternoon,