The battering on the doors has grown more insistent, an arrhythmic roll of a huge, flat drum. A trickle of old blood, embalming fluid, and gods know what else creeps underneath the nearer side. Isabel can smell them, the unmistakable miasma of rot, sickness, and cold, damp earth.
The Book of the New Moon Door
Berend and Isabel’s day continues to get worse. You can have a little zombie apocalypse, as a treat, by reading this chapter on Patreon.
Space Whales Press 