"But where did it come from?"Crosley looked up from his desk, closing the cover on the old tome in front of him. It blew a plume of dust into the air, making the candle flicker and causing his shadow to dance madly on the wall behind him. "That," he said quietly, "is not the question you should ask."His son's face paled in the dim light. "Then what is the question, Da?"The elder rose from his chair, the scraping of wood on stone painfully loud in the small study. Taking the candle from the desk, he beckoned his son to follow. Their footsteps echoed in the narrow corridor as Crosley lead the way down. The air grew cold and damp, mist coating the stonework under their feet. Green moss and algae grew in the cracks, and the hall smelled of age and neglect.The winding, decrepit hallways seemed endless, but it was the awareness of a low moaning noise that caused the younger to break their silence. "Da?""Nearly there, Bartholomew," Crosley assured him. The moaning came and went, like a great beast breathing in and out. Drafts stirred the mist around their ankles and made the candle sputter. Quickly, the elder shielded it with a cupped hand.The corridor veered right, ending with a solid iron door. Behind it, the moaning had increased to an angry howl. "The proper question," Crosley answered at last, reaching for the door's switch, "is 'How do we escape?'"The door flew open, hurling a gust of wind at them that nearly knocked Bartholomew off his feet. The candle had no prayer and was swiftly extinguished, plunging the fetid hallways into darkness. But beyond the door, Crosley's son saw light.