Slender chimes of bone dangle from the front entrance

They clang together emitting a low howl of hollow souls through the air

A step through the front door, and your feet touch the welcome rug of calico hair

So soft, like cashmere between your toes

A sigh escapes the door as the handle lock slides into place in the wall's trim

It clicks

You can faintly hear the whispers of wind caressing the crumbling window shutters

As they bang, bang, clash

Against the exterior walls of the pitted building

Heavy footsteps lead to a large, open living space where a fireplace,

Tiled with smooth teeth and ragged nails eludes a glow that fades into the room

Slightly to the left of the soft glow sits a man, sculpted of bone
In a large chair made from sunned skin stretched tightly over a padded frame

There, next to it sits a dish, slightly filled with red internal ink

You watch as one long finger extends to dip into the ink and slowly crosses a name

From the book in his lap

You hear the sounds, whispers and howls, all from before; engulf you as your name in encoded

In his book of the dead.