Eight“Harry? Harry?” Seeing nothing in the dark, hearing no answer from the crow's nest, Angela hesitantly took the ladder rungs in hand and started to climb. “Mr. Towers?” At the top, she peered into the gloom. “Mr. Towers?” She strained to see deep into the loft.
An amber light snapped on. Angela yipped.
The light threw harsh shadows on the scattered props and set pieces, on an open steamer trunk, and on a figure standing before it; a vision straight out of hell's own opera. Draped in a crimson robe and a matching red flowing cape, clutching a brown staff his own height, wearing a wide-brimmed black musketeer hat (with a gargantuan green feather depending to the side) atop his head, and a face – that was no face at all, but a grinning skull with eye orbits that sank into black nothingn
