The air was still. Light streamed into the old room at a steep angle illuminating the books on the narrow tables against the exterior walls. There, in the oval office, the memorabilia on the walls and the antique pieces of furniture were impressive.
He reached up and around with his right hand and, slowly grasping his left cheek, he pulled the flesh. It came off easily and slipped to the floor. There, faceless, he stood, motionless. There was only blackness where his face had been. You could hear the faint screams and cries of generations past. The torture, the death, the inhumanity to man.
Red liquid oozed onto the manicured carpeting leaving only shriveled pieces of flesh between his fingers. He didn’t move. Somehow, he couldn’t move.
From the blackness came horror. Unmasked, you could see the monsters of generations past, their surprise at being reawakened after centuries of sleep. They slowly wafted through the room and escaped.
What had he done?
There was no sound. . . only the cries of horror which had pervaded the centuries and were now unleashed.