The Butler

**Six Months Later.**

The rain lashed against the windows of the Cliffside Inn.

The brass bell rang.

The door opened.

A man stood there, soaking wet, holding a briefcase. He had shifty eyes and the nervous sweat of someone running from the law.

"I... I saw the light," the man stammered. "My car broke down. Do you have a room?"

The butler standing at the door stared at him.

The butler was tall, with sharp features and hollow, dead eyes. He wore a tuxedo that fit him perfectly—a tuxedo from the 1920s, perhaps, or maybe just last week. His skin was pale, waxy.

The butler wanted to scream. He wanted to say, *Run. Run while you can. She is hungry.*

But his tongue was heavy lead in his mouth. He had no will. He was just furniture.

"We have rooms," a soft, melodic voice came from the staircase.

Elara Blackwood descended the stairs. She looked radiant. Her cheeks were flushed with health. She smiled at the new man.

"We always have rooms for travelers who lose their way," she said.

The butler stepped aside, holding the door open, his face a mask of obedient servitude.

"Come in," Elara whispered.

The man walked in.

The butler closed the door, sealing the tomb once again.