But no. The smoke was just smoke. My imagination.
August inhaled sharply and collapsed on the table, his back shaking. Sobbing. He flinched at my touch.
It took him over an hour before he was able to speak coherently. “I didn’t as much hear the words . . . I felt the pain and the horror.”
We sat together on the couch, wrapped in each other’s arms.
“It dulled, which was in a way even worse. And then . . .”
My hand curled on his shoulder, a finger caressing his jaw, my forehead bowed. Listening.
“It rose again. Just before the end.” He shivered. “I don’t . . . don’t know what it was, but—such terror. . . . Then something saved me.”
“Or someone.” The image of Meyrink came to me.
The clock ticked on the mantel.
“I . . . this may sound strange, but I thought I heard Gustav Meyrink’s vo
