The Count

The desperate hold of the Count crushed my arm. That such a grip would remain in one so wrecked by time is remarkable in hindsight. His boney fingers wrapped around my wrist and tightened with a frightful power. I tried to pull away, but it was of no use.

“Agh!” I gasped.

“You think you can run from me, child?”

As I struggled and pulled against his grip, I reached out and caught a bunch of the drapes in my other hand. The rod must have been rotten (the whole castle was falling apart) and the curtains fell with a clutter and crash, leaving swirling vortices of dust dancing in the morning light.

The Count shrieked—I suppose he was startled—let go, and ran. That was the last I ever saw of him.