House of Death

He ran, faster than the wind, blood pounding in his ears. To stop, even for an instant, was fatal. He could not afford that. Already he could hear the hushed whispers behind him growing louder, small beams of light danced on the snowy floor. He gasped for breath and felt his strength ebbing away slowly. He had not eaten in days. Naked pine trees rushed past him in a blur. Ahead of him loomed the house of Burzum, he knew he should not enter, but what other choice did he have? The moonlight cast a cold, pale glow over the mansion, making it look even more ancient, more evil. Insanity took over and he hurtled up the creaking steps, ignoring the splinters that drove into the soles of his feet. He plunged through the door. Behind him, the voices seemed to stop, their footsteps hesistant. For a while they lingered, embroiled in an argument, but eventually they faded, disappearing into the darkness. An icy gust of night wind blew through the many windows, the broken shutters no longer able to keep them out. He felt the chill right to his very core. Shivering slightly, he pulled his oversized coat around him tighter. The house seemed to moan in the wind, creaking and shifting, as if it had a life of its own. Slowly, he stood to his feet. His keen eyes sought out stairs, doors and long narrow corridors, leading this way and that. It was a maze of passages, but he felt comfortable, at ease. It was a strange feeling; long had it been since he felt that way. He wandered aimlessly through the hallowed hallways, stopping once in a while to stare at some intricate carving, or drag his finger over the dust on the tables. At last, he came to a dead end in an empty room. Straight ahead of him was a mirror, clear, unmarred by years, framed in gold. He moved closer, staring, transfixed, at his image. He lips cracked in a smile, revealing yellowing teeth. His eyes were blue and bright, but the rest of his face had seemingly sunken into the very barest threads of humanity. He was so pale that he nearly reflected the soft glow of the moon. Turning away, he caught sight of a vase sitting high on a mantlepiece. But no, it was not a vase, but an urn, images neatly etched unto it. Sitting beside it was a bronze plaque. He leaned forward to read it. Rest In Eternal and Everlasting Peace Burzum, Blake 1890-1945 He chortled to himself, as if reveling in a secret joke. His laughter grew louder, and louder, until it echoed through the empty house, ringing and resonating. He turned back to the mirror and laughed again, his eyes dancing, his mouth open in the throes of insanity. Brushing away his long hair, he fingered the wound on his temple, slightly above his right ear. It was deep, a bullet wound, bloody, fresh. But he felt no pain. Dropping his hand to his side, he whispered softly, "I'm home."