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Coal black shadows slithered across the cool green marble tiles surrounding the massive fireplace. Its heavy carvings of satin-finished mahogany glowed dully in the flickering light. Blood red glowed uncannily from the dead eyes of gargoyles, caressing their snarling lips, animating them, and making them appear to move with the shadows in silent conversation. Tendrils of ebony oozed up the dark carved wood of the walls surrounding the fireplace, giving the shifting patterns the look of pale-veined nightmares brought to life. Roaring flames, barely contained by a firebox large enough to roast an ox, gave birth to a ruddy glare that fought to overcome the shadows. The light and heat pouring out from the fireplace barely made an impression on the cavernous room, seeming to feed the shadows instead of subduing them.

Deeply ensconced within a high-backed Victorian armchair, Morgan Turner sat quietly, long fingers laced over his lean torso, his gaze fixed on the ornate burgundy and gold pattern of an antique Oriental rug under his feet. Dark curling hair, shot with streaks of grey, spiraled around his head like a wild thicket. His broad chest barely rose and fell under a heavy velvet dressing gown while his head lolled. His long chiseled nose involuntarily wrinkled with distaste when the odour of moldering earth and leaves assaulted it. The room, full of heavily carved antique furniture, seemed to be watching him expectantly as he arrogantly occupied their space and drifted, deep in thought and oblivious to his surroundings.

When a timid scratching of fingers sounded through the thick oak door, only Morgan's restless brown eyes moved in response. "What is it, Ehrich?" The heavy whispering bass of his voice carried around the room in spite of its lack of volume.

The heavy door silently swung open, allowing a bright square of light from the hallway to intrude upon the room's gloomy interior. The shadows fled before it. Morgan continued to stare into the flames as an elderly man with a balding head glided soundlessly into the room and stood patiently behind the chair, waiting to be acknowledged. Steele raised one ringed finger, the ring's ebony facets flashing multi-hued arrows of crystalline light around the room.

"Mr Turner, it is time for your meeting with the scientists." The old man's freckled head bowed slightly but his thin body, encased in an old-fashioned black suit, remained ramrod straight and at attention.

"Give me fifteen minutes then bring them into the conference room. Tell Travis I want a word with him afterward and to bring his latest report." Turner's voice was barely above a whisper but the tone of authority was one of absolute command.

Ehrich left the room as silently as he'd entered. When the heavy door softly closed behind his retreating back the shadows resumed their serpentine dance upon the walls and furniture. Turner rose slowly and deliberately, like a wary prey animal surrounded by ravenous predators. "What do you want from me?" he ground out between whitened lips.

The dry rustling whisper of ancient and crumbling paper filled the room.

Free us. Bring us to your world. We can offer power...immortality. The barriers must be breached. Free us. Free us. Free us....

The whispers faded, as if a great wind blew them away from Morgan's hearing. Morgan shuddered and quickly moved to turn on all the lights in the room.

I'm losing my mind. The sentence whirled around and around his brain until he grasped his temples with shaking fingers and clenched his eyes shut, praying that the litany would end. When it didn't, Morgan dropped his hands, ground his teeth and squared his shoulders.

But I won't let the bastards know it. I'm the king here. I'm one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. I can do anything...anything I want.

He threw his head back and stalked to the door. Hesitating with a death grip on the knob, he turned his face back toward the room, his eyes flashing like the black stone ring on his finger.

"Even you can't make me do what I don't want to do." He sneered, opened the door and left, slamming the heavy door behind him.

The shadows oozed out of the walls, undulating sensuously toward the portrait of Morgan Turner that dominated the wall above the fireplace. They converged upon the picture, caressing it with tenuous fingers. The low, brittle sound of contemptuous laughter echoed around the room, and then abruptly altered into something much worse. It permeated all, absorbed all colour and light from the room and reverberated through the walls like the muffled, desperate wailing of a lost soul buried deep within a cold, dark tomb.