Jen’s Reviews > Himself > Status Update

Shauna closes her eyes and listens as the house sings the backing vocals to the song of the storm outside. Floorboards groan and windowpanes shudder. Somewhere a door slams in time while the keyholes whistle the high notes.

The house is dark with a foxy musk smell, a smell that rolls out along the hallway in place of a carpet.

The smell is so strong that Mahony can taste it; a thick damp prowls into his nose and mouth, settles on the back of his tongue, and starts to paw his throat closed. It is the smell of a million mold-blossomed pages, of a thousand decaying bindings, of a universe of dead words.

In its prime Rathmore would have been imposing; its bone structure still mutters about good breeding.