All numb, you look around
Your soul does not [bad word] anymore
Everything makes you suffer
Dark clouds gathering over you again
Unstained with the sign of the cross
You can’t dispel these thoughts lashing you with the fire of contempt

I will be in your dreams till the very end
Your blood’s so precious to me
You will leave the chronicle of your anguish
Looking forward to the final night of doom
I’m taking your hand in this deathly silence
Your journey brings you closer to the secrets of death

The moon enters the cave of the dead
Snakes tense in their sleep
You debase yourself begging for the last spell

The grave will hide your deathly pallor and abomination

He spent the evening in the library where he came across an interesting book on the legend of a man who once lived in the area. The poor man suffered from a terrible ailment. Whenever someone in the neighbourhood was harmed or ill-treated, he would suffer agonizing pain.

He stopped reading. There was a letter in the book, with a vague signature and a little map of a section of the estate.

The nights between late August and late October seem darker than any other nights.