• an old woman lay in a creaky, Victorian bed that was almost as old as she was. the wind snaked its way through her ancient house, which creaked and groaned in protest. the woman did not wake. she remained consumed, a captive of the dark chains of her dreams.
    voices flitted in and out of her mind, voices hissing terrible things too quietly to be heard. she was not sure whether they were part of her dream or not. she slept on, her dreams lulling her deeper into sleep even as she fought to escape.
    the man flitted through the dark hallway, silent as a shadow. the old floorboards did not creak as he glided softly along, reaching the door within minutes. he traced a jagged line down the splintering wood, which vanished. he approached the woman. she did not wake as he drew his knife and carved three letters into her flesh: HAL.
    he retreated, leaving the room exactly as it had been, but for the woman's blood now marring the pristine sheets. in twenty minutes she was dead.