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[In the time between examining his mirror carefully and waiting to see what becomes of the original message, another appears in its place the next time he looks. If there was a question what the anonymous author had been using to pen his note, it's been answered. Victor's seen enough blood to recognize its consistency.
Blood. One might think writing in it is as cliche as horror tropes get, but when it's on his mirror in his room while he's alone, it's effective way to freeze him in uncertainty.
It wants communication, but... how?
Write on the glass in kind?
He can hear his breath pick up. Not being able to see who owns the ghostly hand of his messenger is fear of the unknown in its purest definition, the realization that something looms near but having no means to identify it. Nerves don't keep him from taking two steps closer, then two more, close enough to touch the glass again.
He touches the hand print with his fingertips, expecting residue to rub off on them. It's just a mirror, but potentially so much more than that.]
and some yet live, treading the thorny road - Post a comment
which leads, through toil and hate, to fame’s serene abode