Is it a damp December wind threading through the palindrome trees; once-green limbs now like roots attempting to take hold in the wan winter sky? Perhaps it's a late evening fog, tickling the belfry points on a cemetery fence! The brittle papyrus crackle of dead leaves pulled across an empty street! The scuttle of mice, pressing themselves into dry, dust-scented attics, seeking refuge in some warm, shadow-obscured corner!
No! It is none of these things! It is merely the faintest of sounds–a dry, dismal vocal emanation so weak as to be interpreted as perhaps a secret shared by a secret!
It is: THE WHISPERING SKULL!
More nonsense soon.
No! It is none of these things! It is merely the faintest of sounds–a dry, dismal vocal emanation so weak as to be interpreted as perhaps a secret shared by a secret!
It is: THE WHISPERING SKULL!
More nonsense soon.
