The street is deserted, but you can feel the prickle of eyes on the back of your neck. It’s past three in the morning; you breathe dew instead of air. A slight breeze stirs the velvet drapes that serve as doors as you pass them. Darkness drips from the eves of buildings like moisture from the roof of a cave, leaving long stalagtites of shadow in its wake. The tramp of your boots echoes on the worn cobblestones, rude and out of place, and the fog rushes out and swirls around your feet to muffle them into quietness.
You must be quiet.
The breeze tugs at your sleeve impatiently, motioning you forward. You are at the door; the door you passed without seeing yesterday and many days before. Until a stranger met you at your club, and bought you drinks, and trickled red-tinged dreams of glory into your ear. Lastly, he whispered the name of this place. Where to come, when.
The door opens at your touch. A pale, featureless mask floats in the darkness behind it.
“Ah, you’re right on time.” The masked voice smiles. “Come in.”
The night reaches out a tendril, and pulls you into its heart.
