Houses Of The Holy

We slid into port last night on the tide, tying our ship up to a fog enshrouded dock where neither longshoreman nor streetwalker stirred. Aftweward, we slept the sleep of the dead; the storm we’d just ridden out having sapped the strength from our bodies and our souls.

Deeply invested in dream as I was, I could not shake the feeling of forboding I had felt standing on the deck looking out into the night, for it did not feel right, that sucking fog, that cloak of inpenetrable mist that seeped into my every pore and chilled me to the bone.

Suddenly, the clanging of a deep-toned bell shattered my dreamstate, wrenching me rudely awake. Joined by a tolling of smaller bells, a rolling clang and bang of shrillness penetrated the fillings in my teeth and set them to throbbing.

I arose to address the tumult with my eyes and to my wonder, the fog had gone, replaced by a vision far more terrifying. A village of churches stretched before me. Oh horror!

And a I saw a sign saying, “Welcome to the Port of Hell.”

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