Plink...

He stood in the doorway and tried to control his breathing. The room was empty except for an old man sitting crouched forward on a lone chair. The old man had a knife in one hand and his index finger extended with the other; he was slowly whittling his finger with the knife, taking thin curls of flesh with each swipe. Below him, to catch the shavings and the blood, there was a tin bucket. Blood dripped from the old man’s finger.

Plink...plink…

“‘Ello, young feller,” the old man said, and continued to whittle.

Plink.

Zach held the card up so he could read it: 'Is this a dream?'

He looked at the old man. The old man did not disappear.

Plink.

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