The sunlight had long since vanished by the time Mrs. Peacock awoke to find herself struggling to remember where she was. The room she had grown accustom to had since been cast in alien moonlight. Outlines of a dull and unfamiliar paleness render the usual shapes of furniture abstract and nearly indistinguishable from the enveloping dark.

She tries to recount all of the marvelous details of her dream before they succumb to the blank, black void of her weary stare. Recognizing the impossible task this is she mutters, “Pointless” and stands bolt upright— startled to hear an immediate response tumble over her ear. “I’m afraid where you’re going you needn’t a point, my dear.”

Mrs. Peacock turns to focus on the peripheral movement of her assailant only to see drapes sway in his elusive wake. A platinum plated revolver floats in the glow of her thoughts. Dimness dances on and off the barrel like a rotating mirror lit with sharp twinkling light— traveling up close to her petrified presence. Point blank. Dead.