coiled nauseatingly in the pit of Stanford’s gut as he stared back at a pair of
feverish orange embers glinting from depths of the second fragment’s searing
glare. His brother’s silhouette loomed menacingly before him; a disturbingly
calm and immovable statue compared to the shifting, fracturing, and wavering
reality of the basement around them. The man, monster, shadow, personification
of Stanley’s hatred, whatever he was, stood barely half an arm’s length away,
pressing in uncomfortably close to Stanford’s trapped and hapless form like a
half starved coyote closing in on it’s next meal.