If it’s dark under the floorboards of the library, it’s not because there’s no light. The blackness oozes up over his arms, sticking to his sleeves, and the smell is overwhelming. He leans in up to his elbows, tar leaking up and spreading over the dirty wood floor, and I’m really torn about whether or not I should stop him.
Steam comes off the tar. The ringing in my ears rises to what sounds like a guttural whine, and the itching in my brain returns. I wince, smacking the side of my head briefly before turning back to the priest. “Hey, Marco? Buddy?”
He stands slowly, and the tar seems hesitant to release him. In fact, I’d almost swear that the splotches of black around his biceps are shaped like fingers. He is eventually released, though, and stands to his full height, blood starting to drip from his chin now. One of his unfocused eyes floods red as a large hematoma spreads over the white, and I stand up quickly.
- Ghost Story, Chapter 3