The Writers' Circle

"This way Mr. Haek" she said, shuffling around the spiral staircase, which seemed to spiral upwards into the heavens- an unprecedented height.
Looking down to the lobby, I noticed a giant mosiac star on the floor, which I missed upon entry. "So the elevators down you say?" I asked exhausted, for an old lady she seemed to be holding out well, she turned slowly with her cataract eyes- piercing blue.
"Yes Mr.Haek, that hasn't worked for some time now", I didn't like the idea of walking this great height every day, it seemed quiet a jaunt- but reconciled that the exercise would do me good.
The old lady continued upwards, her knees cracking with each step, but maintaining a steady pace- the marble steps were covered with a film of dust that leapt grey tendrils with the flapping seam of her dress. 
"The Count von Fersen once lived here in 1773, there was a plaque out the front, perhaps you missed it,  I'm sure you'll find your room agreeable", "I've never seen a building quite like this, it's so quiet" I observed
"Yes that it is, most of the residents have moved to the newer apartments down Auphelle, these are slow times Mr.Haek, I hope you won't find the silence a problem", "on the contrary Miss Strachan, this is just what I looking for" I smiled, I noticed the lights were old and dim, they flickered a ghost-orange hue of a 4-Watt sunset- as we progressed to the 8th floor, it grew darker still- in fact almost pitch-black, until a chandelier on the 10th illuminated the entire floor -the effect was beautiful. 
If so many rooms are empty, why let this one, and not a room closer to the lobby? I thought; I considered asking her, but I was worried it might appear rude, so I simply smiled as she rattled the keys and walked slowly down the corridor. 
Each passing door was varnished dark-vermilion with gold handles, as we approached what was to be my new home for the next two months- I noticed the door, was different- cracked and warped inwards as if it retained damp, the handle was a simple knob, with a gold keyhole in the centre. I looked down at the pitiful suitcase I had brought with me- a few clothes, toothbrush, books, paper, pens, soap, towels, the bare minimum- and a pack-away Imperial typewriter from the 50s- ink ribbons included.
"This is it Mr. Haek I'll show you around" she never never showed emotion when she spoke, I figured she must of made this same journey thousands of times, with a thousand different faces. For an elderly lady, she had a thin intelligent face- clean and simple, her hair was well kept, and her clothes modest, she wore a gold broach that glistened red with two set rubies.The key rattled in the lock a long while, until finally it caught and the landlady used the force of her shoulder to push it open. 
Dust- more dust! I thought, as it swept inwards, and then back out into the corridor in a thick blanket. I instinctively held my hand over my nose and mouth, as a child I was asthmatic, but seeing that too might appear rude, I let let my hands fall to my side, what was a little dust after all?
"Mr Haek, the doors are locked at precisely 11pm, if you find yourself locked out, you can use the intercom to speak with Mr. Biel he's the resident caretaker- though he is rather old and hard of hearing, so it's advisable you remain indoors after 10pm", "Oh I doubt, I'll be going out much at all" I said, proudly holding up my typewriter and tapping the side, she nodded, I realised she probably wouldn't know what the box contains.
"You're a writer?" she said, giving me a long hard look. It seems, I was mistaken. It's hard to explain, maybe the slight infliction of tone, but in that simple question, I had the impression she knew a writer once.
"Yes that's right, I've always been a great admirer of the countryside- I'm trying to find something... I once I lost- my writing isn't what it used to be- get back to my roots- you know" I flashed a smile
"Then you will enjoy the view of Vassiviere Lake Mr. Haek, it's quiet inspiring, you're room has the best view of beyond the Beech trees, come I will show you" 
The room was large with sweeping bay windows, after the flipping the light switch (which evidently didn't work), she grabbed my arm and pulled me gently towards the windows, nodding to the distant lake. 
It was an amazing view, the garden was filled with a whole array of trees, Black Cherry, Bur Oak, American Linden and Beech (which was the most common of them all), the garden itself was well kept, and the trees spruced and pared, I wondered if this was the work of Mr. Biel. Ominous grey clouds spread evenly over the sea in the far distance, the waves were wild and the trees beckoned with a forceful wind- yet not a sound passed the windows- I had overlooked the garden upon entering the Hotel, it being mainly reserved to the back- I made a mental note to walk it later that day, if the approaching storm abated.
"It's beautiful" I said contented, "I'm glad, you like it" she replied simply, she walked over to the writing desk, and began writing a receipt for the first week- which I'd already paid for in advance. 
"Rent will be collected on Fridays, you can leave it in an envelope under the door, if you do not wish to be disturbed, also the maid will visit three times a week, sometimes- four" she handed me a tag from the writing desk drawer which read DO NOT DISTURB- I assumed this was for the maid, she obviously had a sense of my need for privacy. 
"Thank you" I smiled to show my appreciation, "and the lights?" 
"the wiring in this old building is a little faulty, it's probably a fuse, I'll have Mr. Biel take a look at the breakers, this happens quiet a lot in the Summer- there's some candles in the pantry if they're still not on by nightfall-" she tested the light switch again to no avail, to which she shook her head and said "Good night Mr. Haek" I bid good her good-night. 
Immediately I set my attention to the fine oak writing table (which was one of the finest and largest I have seen), and began writing a letter to my dearest wife I had left behind in Dorchester.

Dear Clarrisa,

I arrived this evening at the Hotel Ida-Rése, and it is here I am writing to you now- the city of itself is pleasant, and the local seem friendly, there's a romantic old bookshop down Pierrefitte filled with antiquaries and such rarities I just know you'll love it- the Hotel itself is quiet old, it's furnished with such unusual baroque oddities, I feel it will be perfect for the sojourn I had planned- again, I am sorry I had to leave on such short notice- perhaps at a later date- we can return here together- until then, I will write regularly, I hope you understand this is something I must do, my dear sweet Clarrisa- please write, as I feel I may become lonely and miss you terribly before long-

My Undying Love 

Harry-

I wrote the Hotel's address on the back of the envelope, sealed it, and placed it gently under the paperweight, promising to place it with the rent for Miss Strachan to deliver, despite what was written in the letter I had little interest in seeing the city- or venturing far from the hotel- I was certain it was silence I needed, and the words of great writers to inspire me- far from the hectic lifestyle I left behind in Dorchester which had become so unbearable and stifling. Poor Clarissa- I have these past few months dragged you into the torment I have felt raging and conflicting within my own soul- I must admit dear reader, I cradled my head in arms and wept on that writing desk for the longest time, great childish sobs that racked through my entire body- until finally, the great sobbing waves abated along with the sun, and the peptic tide of tranquillity once again restored my senses.
 
As is human nature, when left alone in a strange new abode- I lit a candle, and began inspecting the rooms. 
The pantry was simple with ornamental wooden furnishing, the only sign of electricity was a single plug which powered a great bulking refrigerator stained yellow with grease and misuse; although the inside was rather clean- it was completely empty. A simple gas cooker, and the usual plain white faceless crockery, you invariably encounter in hotels. 
In the living area, an ornate giant four-pillared bed, a writing desk, bookshelves, several drawers- a small dining set-with a teacup- tea- and sugar satchels, a meter with a coin-slot next to the door (with no markings), the purple fleur-de-lis wallpaper in the living area complemented the room, it seemed the storm never surfaced and moonlight flooded through the large bay windows- I felt a tingle run down my spine, the room with it's simplicity held promise for me. It is rooms like this- Poe's The Raven- comes alive- perched menacingly above the fine door frame with words of 'Nevermore', Gothic Novel's by Lawrence Stern, Lovecraft, and Kafka -can all play a theatrical part within this romantic and macabre setting- it is when I was thinking thus and unpacking various books onto the shelf above the bed (reliving there various travels and fancies by candlelight) that I heard a scurrying and a tapping within the walls- it's only natural that a building as old as this should contain a few rodents- I tapped back and held my head to the wall, to my disappointment- the scurrying stopped completely- and did not return for a full hour- during which time I had began writing at the great oak desk which I would spend many hours and would come to rely on in times of boredom.

It was both the tapping and scratching in the walls, and the tapping of my own typewriter- that I almost missed Mr. Biel's quiet rapping at the door- I hurriedly reached for the candle, and answered his gentle knocking.
"I am sorry to disturbed you at such a time Mr. Haek, but I believe your lights should now be in order" said the wizened old man-  he was short, with a face like the knob of an old oak tree- his beady eyes buried within folds of loose skin- a man as old as this should of retired years ago.
"Mr. Biel I presume" I held out my hand, to which he looked at for an inordinately long time before he hesitantly shook it, or merely placed a feeble hand in mine-
"Will you come in?" I asked politely, 
"No... no.... I..." he looked around nervously- "I have duties to perform"
"I understand, well...I'll try those lights" I replied smiling, I worked my way back into the room, and upon reaching the switch near the pantry, flipped it- the lights buzzed on, flooding the room with a brilliant white light- so vastly greater to the orange-dim hue in the corridors, I was about to reply with a friendly-"Viola!", when the sound of bristling leaves filled the room, and a thousand scurrying feet, of hundreds of tiny cockroaches, flooded to every corner of the room!
I felt my stomach flip inside out and a surge of vomit rise painfully in my throat, to think just beyond the candlelight- they had been there all along!
I turned to face Mr. Biel "What's going on he-!" it was too late, he was gone.
As long as the lights remained on, the cockroaches remained hidden within the walls, and if I stood within the corona of candlelight and flipped the switch off- a great wave of bristling and clapping of tiny feet surrounded me- I would run through the experiment several times- fascinated, having never heard of cockroaches behaving in such a way! 
Until eventually I grew tired, and promising myself to talk to Miss Strachan about procuring a new room in the morning- I retired into the great four pillared- heavy quilted bed- which I surrounded with candlelight- in case the lights- would once again shut-off whilst I slept.

In the morning I walked the beautiful garden, and sat peacefully beneath a Beech tree reading G K Chesterton- a wood lark would peck nervously, close to my feet- the serenity overwhelmed me. 
I still hadn't seen a single tenant in that stately Hotel, I looked up shielding the sun from my eyes, observing the many windows and gables and the old brick work that shaped it's unusual Gothic façade - I have it all to myself; I thought with a sense of pride.
Later that day I shopped for provisions down Nergout a quiet friendly village and returned up the endless spiralling staircase to my room- in the daylight it seemed even more beautiful then ever, there was still strong wisps of dust that roamed the air when I moved, and the windows would not open- so the air became rather stilted, nevertheless it retained its charms.
Finally, after a quick lunch, I sat at the writing desk and began to read the work I had created the night before (An Historical fiction set in the Victorian Age) to my dismay- it made no sense at all! The characters were badly drawn out, the plot made no sense and the dialogue was blurred with nonsense-I still hadn't found my verve! 
I would mutter and scream, pull my hair in frustration, and tap wildly at the keys, but to no avail-  It was no use, it was only when night fell again, I remembered the roaches- but depressed, defeated and overcome with fatigue- and with no sign of Miss Strachan, I left the lights on, lit the candles and crawled sullenly into bed. 

'Clarrisa if I can't write, I can't live.... please...please  forgive me....' I felt the tears well up in my eyes- I pulled the cover close to my chin and began to weep- hard self-loathing sobs- when once again I heard a scurrying in the walls just above the headboard, it was much larger than a rat! 
"Hello?" I said rather foolishly- tapping the walls- again it stopped, but an hour later, came back with banging brutal force- in surges of violence- SLAM! This would somehow effect the old wiring- the lights shut off- the bristling leaves of cockroaches would rally to the candlelight- I would lie in terror- hot clammy feet- thinking any moment it might burst through the walls- this stentorian racket continued through most of the night until daybreak, when I finally managed to catch a few hours sleep-  Miss Strachan or not I was determined to leave the hotel the next day.

The following day I made two mistakes- I awoke in late afternoon, and I left my suitcase unpacked in my room whilst I went in search for an available hotel, in the local village of Auphelle. 
The weather was overcast, and a foreboding distant cloud rumble beyond the lake. I found a pleasant Hotel near the pier, booking a room I promised to return later that day- the rain swept heavily on my short walk back to the Hotel Ida-Rése, back in my room- I packed my bags and prepared to leave.
Tearing up my work, I hoped to make a fresh start at Hotel Pierre-Blanche, making way down the spiral stairs with a slight jog, my clothes ringing wet and my shoes squeaking with each step- I reached the lobby and pulled at the great entrance doors. 
Locked! I tried the intercom. After what seemed an inordinately long time there was a click- and a beep.
"Yes?" it was Biel 
"Mr. Biel the doors are locked!"
"I'm sorry Mr Haek- it has already gone 11pm. I can not allow you to leave, the doors are locked for the night"
"But that's impossible" I looked down at my gold Montblanc watch-the dial read 20:15pm the giant entrance door was firmly bolted and padlocked. I press the intercom again, and shuffled around the centre of the mosaic star, until I heard the bleep and click of Biel "Yes Mr. Haek" he drawled- 
"Look you old crank! You can't lock me in here! I have the right to leave-!"
"Is there a problem?"
"yes the problem is simple, I'm in here, and I need to be out there!" I placed my suitcase next to the door, and waited. No Response.
The orange -dim lights started to flicker- the distant sound of bristling leaves.
"You've got to be kidding" I tried the intercom again "Mr. Biel!" I screamed.
I looked down the empty lobby corridor- past endless vermilion doors- where my greatest fear was confirmed-  someone was turning off the lights! 
I snatched my suitcase-and sprinted to the stairwell- using it as a weapon, swinging violently against an invisible enemy "Back! Get back!" 
Floor by floor the darkness and scurrying bugs chased me- panting and exhausted- 3rd floor- 4th- 5th floor, the broken elevator twanged with inner torment- were they in the shaft? Then a daunting thought fill me with terror as reached the 6th- "the 8th! The 8th was always pitch black!", 7th floor, the darkness and bugs now directly on my heels- I was trapped! I screamed a deafening war cry-  sprinting faster then ever- burning lactic acid- they jumped and leapt at my hands, crunching slippery fragile bodies bodies beneath my feet- thousands of them! I tried desperately not to slip, they would be all over me in a flash- once- twice I almost lost my balance, the marble floor squeaking with their bursting insides, flat-bodies clinging to the soles of my shoes- 9th floor, I was free! But the darkness and throngs of millions of bugs from every floor were now lapping at my heel in clattering leaps- 10th! I the lights dimming orange-amber-auburn- 4 watts-3, I reached the door pulling out my key with shaking hands, to my horror- the key wouldn't catch! 
"Come on! Come on" I kicked the door frantically, finally it swung open and with my own light blazing reassuring- I slammed the door shut- running to the pantry I lit as many candles I could find (which was only 7), placing 3 at the door, and 4 around the pillars of my bed- where I spent the night; staring with wild terror at the door- praying for daybreak; until my eyes grew heavy and the pull of sleep absorbed me.
 
When I awoke the lights were off. The candles out. The sun beamed sleepily through the window- I reached down to touch a strange sensation on the inside of my leg-feeling lightening strike several times up my thigh in a searing heat pain. Upon closer inspection,  I noticed it was a sweltering red bite- which was painful to touch and had a large blue welt in the centre.
I hobbled out of bed- throwing on my coat- I tried to put as little weight as possible onto the leg- as each step brought s fresh wave of numb pain. 
This is it! Today I leave and no one can stop me! I locked the door and with my suitcase shuffled slowly down the long corridor, the shells of dead cockroaches pasted flat to the marble steps.
A shiver ran down my spine- I began my descent to the 9th floor, as I approached the 8th, there was  a thick carpet of dead roaches and green slime, hundreds of them, I slipped into the darkness with good hope that this nightmare will soon be over- but despite all my efforts I couldn't pass into the penumbra of the 8th floor! 
As I reached outwards in to the dark; my fingers curled inwards of their own accord- my legs spasmed, and my head swayed with the promise of unconsciousness- the bite on my leg screaming in agony, a thousand watt jolt of acid. 
I had become the anti-cockroach, bound to the light!
"No! No! No!" I screamed slamming my fist against the stairwell the sounds echoing down the entire complex, tears welling up, manifesting into dry hard sobs- 
The rooms! There are tens of rooms on each floor! With a room facing the front of the hotel, I could attract a passer-by! 
I sprinted back up to the 9th, kicking the first door I found with all of my strength- THUMP- I'd reel back and try again- THUMP -finally it gave way with a hard loud CRACK- nothing could prepare me for what I saw.
There was nothing- no floor- no walls, no light- emptiness- not even sound, I stood staring into an endless vacuum of black, feeling my hope flood down to my feet, and dissipate over me in waves of disbelief. I tested the floor with my foot, almost slipping into the darkness, -
"What is this!" I screamed like a mad man; running the length of the corridor kicking doors,"What is this!!" Nothing.
All the rooms, were exactly the same. Simply- nothing.
 
Since I was trapped on the 10th floor, with no means of escape, I spent the days writing, to my amazement within three days I had completed my historical novel- "Angel Meadow". 
I found a renewed  joy in thinking- and explored many areas life- and subjects I had never known I possessed. Thoughts, ideas, revelations, epiphanies of fantastic magnitude
My leg became heavy with fluid, which I could roll around and push with my hands, sometimes I would drain it out- gushing bursts of dark liquid, before long the purple veins crept slowly up my body- a lattice of thrombosis, though there was a throbbing inside my core; running up and down my spinal column- (as if my nervous system was reworking itself)- I found the pain would recede when I become lost in pure thought. 
Piles of rotting bread, salami, cheese and macaroni clung to the corner and walls-where I had vomited in a failed attempt to digest food. The room began to smell like a morgue, at night my candles dwindled to nothing, but thankfully the lights remained on.   
  
It was several days later I heard I knocking at my door- at first I couldn't believe it; thinking it was a effect of my illness, but in the doorway stood that stern land lady of the Hotel Ida-Rése- 

"Well if it isn't the elusive Miss Strachan" I sneered, peeling a thin film of web from my eyes
"I have all the answers to your questions Mr. Haek" she said rattling her keys and looking furtively passed me into the room.
"Please call me Harry" I grinned "I don't suppose you've come to help me passed the 8th floor, have you Miss Strachan!" "or perhaps, you've brought a doctor, to look at this damn leg, no, no doctor here!" I mockingly looked around the corridor in a mad haze of jest. "looks infected, doesn't it!" 
"No. It's doesn't and it's not! Don't speak ill- of what you don't understand!" she said testily, "May I come in?" 
"Oh, please! Please do!" I bowed, giving a wide sweep of my arms.
"You've been busy....Harry" she said fanning through my work on the writing desk sounding genuinely impressed-  "it take it you're found what you were looking for?"
"Oh yes! A room filled with my own excreta and a rotting leg! Mrs. Strachan, why- I've found exactly what I'm looking for!" 
"I don't appreciate you're humour Harry. I see you're having trouble keeping you meals down-"she nodded towards the stinking pile of vomit in the corner- holding a handkerchief to her nose-
"You can bill m-"
"Soon you will unable to digest solids" she cut me off
"In return for 50 pages on your postulations -concerning the meaning of life; I will leave a bowl of milk laced with sugar outside your room each day, which, you will find agrees with your developing digestive system"
"you must be joking" I scoffed
"I am not joking Mr. Haek, I am deadly serious" she gazed sternly into the garden "did you ever dream that one day, you would transcend even thought itself- travel into new realms, is that not the ideal of the intellectual- to be closer to God, the source of all knowledge? Who is to say disease is not liberating, the decay of the body- the heightening of the soul!" I reached down and touched the bite, which was now an orange-sized, blue- puss sweltering boil.
"What is this? What's bitten me!" I bellowed
"The greatest gift you will ever receive- sometimes goes unnoticed" She rose to leave brushing down her skirt- 
"No! You won't leave, I won't let you!" I screamed, guarding the door- "why can't I pass beyond the 8th floor?"
"Because Mr. Haek you're a rodent- a bug- a slinking scurrying worm- but soon... you will be so much more! When you mature you will find you can go anywhere- but you will simply be unwilling to- this room is your home now- your incubus- you must stay and write"
I struck her violently with the back of my hand, she crumpled to the floor like a bundle of rags with a high pitched scream, all skirt and grey hair- "you knew I was writer didn't you! How? Answer me!!"
She peeled a laughter that grated my bones "Oh, you're all writers, you  London types- you all come here hoping to find something- well you've found it!" she spat.
"Yes, and now I'm leaving, you'll show me how to get pass the 8th floor- you'll damn well take me with you!" I made a move to grab her neck.
She quickly pulled a can from her purse- Xenotach BUG SPRAY- 
"Get back!" she snarled showing her yellow-stained teeth in a grimace of violence- "I'm warning you! I didn't want it to come to this! I'm so close! I won't let a worm like you- destroy a lifetime of work!" she stood; 
I circled her, mocking her- feigning jabs, grunting, howling- "Get back!" she screamed- panicking she looked longingly at the door, and on passed it- to the relative safety of the 7th floor. 
I made a jump for her, ripping a giant patch of matted grey hair from her skull, screams of anguish- a hiss from the canister hit me directly in the face, a million nerve endings on fire. I hit the floor with a heavy thud, laying on my back, kicking and reeling, squealing in torment. 
"You Insect! You pathetic insect! Die! Die!" More blasts from the canister- my eyes were bleeding with pain, my skin on fire with Bessemer heat; I kicked, lashed out, scurried under the bed, where I squealed and writhed in anguished- until finally I lost consciousness and merciful blackness consumed me. 

I awoke at my typewriter- the familiar Imperial blazon, someone had typed out a single word- "WRITE..."

For I long while I put off writing, I would pace the room, doubling over in crippling hunger, bulging contusions in my limbs, that roamed like insects around my body. 
When at last I began to write, it was simply to silence the thoughts that flooded unmercifully into my mind- it was now so much more than bicameral- a million voices all speaking the truth. 
Mendeleev's chemical properties seemed like a joke- posited by a mere child and accepted by  a mass of unthinking infants. Two more hours at the typewriter, I had reworked Tesla's entire theory on electromagnetism. I saw the truth on a molecular level and worked upwards to form foundations, and finally it became as clear and as solid as the back the back of my own hand. The great works I would create, was nothing compared to the orgiastic ecstasy of my own thoughts, that filled my racked body with in inner bliss- the more I thought- the more I learned- the more I learned- the more intense and extreme the pleasure. 

Finally, after many days- and boundless volumes on astrophysics, existentialism and the psychology of man, the hunger had begun to impede my thoughts- my body was shutting down- I was dying. 
I resigned to write my thoughts on the very meaning of life- making wild connections, passing beyond the universe, into fields of research yet unknown by man, and Strachan was true to her word- she would leave a bowl of milk and a wad of paper outside my door- that milk was the finest I had ever tasted, my stomach growled and churned, all my haptic senses were renewed, I was junky with a pure shot of morphine in that bowl of sweet milk. 
Sometimes when I embarked into new fields of thought- they would leave two bowls of that delicious milk laced with sugar; and to think only less than a month ago I was struggling writer trying to overcome my own puerile mental block. Clarrisa if you could see me now!
"Clarrisa..." I held up my hands-  flaking with disease- throbbing pulsating veins., thin with black bubbling anaemic fluids-  Did I feel pity for myself dear reader? It must be hard for you to understand I did not-  the metamorphosis was gradual, and mostly painless,  and though I knew I was dying, a sense of pure bliss of had overwhelmed me, the constraints of my tortured body, to the limitless travels of my own mind, searching hands of thought, that branched out into unknown fields, the synaptics of my mind, shaping-morphing; to the inchoate purity of ancient knowledge.
The pull of the room possessed me completely now. When I slept, I left the lights off, the cockroaches swarming over me in waves and hums, buzzing and clapping, like a coat of clams; bristling thin-black shells and it's when at last a crack of light from door would pierce the darkness- I would know that great beast from the walls had entered, to lick its poison into my bursting wounds, and advance the state of mind- to decay the flesh of my body.

The next day I was placing yet another dossier of my work outside the door, when I caught Biel leaving with yesterdays edition-"Mr.Biel" I said quietly, he turned slowly in my direction, and looked heavily on my legs which had by now grown three times their size and weight- blistered with purple veins-my genitals exposed and engorged- "....do you pity me?" I asked; interested.
He thought a long while, he seemed a thoughtful intelligent old man.
"No, Mr.Haek... I greatly admire you" he said sincerely, "your work is the most insightful I have read"
"And my eyes... how do they look?" I said feeling my face- he looked at me his old  face twisted in conflicting thoughts- "They are black"
"Black!" I screamed, touching my eyes, which felt the size of tennis balls- bloated from their sockets, Biel turned to walk away. 
"Wait! What will happen to me eventually?" he turned sighing he said "your mortal body can not maintain the 'ideal', before the end the physical plane will fade from you Mr. Haek, you will become unresponsive- and see existence as it really is- beyond quantum fields, and then you will die"
"Is there no hope for me then?"
"If you did not die, you would become the ideal- you will become the source"
"The source?", 
"The source of life- of creation- memory- time- energy... a God... that is why you must die" he shook his head and continued to walk down the corridor- he saw little use in becoming familiar with me. Seeing I was still standing in the doorway when he reached the end- he stood a while holding my papers. "You're not the first, Harry".

It was then I understood the rooms- the empty space, devoid of light or matter- they inhabited people once, just like my own- where did they go beyond death? Did they take the rooms with them? As much I as the knowledge I had 'learned'  or been gifted with -the matter of my own 'new' existence still alluded me- perhaps I will only truly know close to death- to truly know a God first you must become one- the thought of never solving the riddle anguished me.

The days turned into weeks and the weeks into months; I was now receiving 4 bowls of milk a day- Strachan must be excited, eager to bribe me- my fingers bleeding with torn flesh- the typewriter caked in blood and hair- the walls layered with equations that will never be deciphered. 
I stood, looking outwards to the Vassiviere Lake, admiring its simplicity for the last time. A beast in the moonlight; naked and malformed- my body now partly unresponsive to command; more a slug than a man. 
Weeping; I placed what I knew was to be my final conclusion to the 'essence of life and death' on that great oak writing desk,sneering at the anguish it will bring to Strachan's cold heart.

A single slip of paper- that simply read-  THE SEA OF LIFE- WAS BUILT ON TOWERS OF MILK AND SUGAR- 

Eventually, the physical plane began to fade from my view. And  in the end dear reader, did I come to understand the nature of my own existence? I can tell you- that I did.

-The End