The old dwelling loomed before me, a gaunt beast, starving and rotten.

I know not how long I stood, lost in horrified awe of the unearthly changes that had befallen the home I hardly now recognized. My contemplation was thankfully interrupted by the appearance of our old gardener, towing a cart towards the front of the house.

Though I hailed him as I approached, he did not seem to perceive my presence until I was at his side. A most curious thing happened – upon seeing me, he stumbled back, clutching at his chest. I was dumbfounded, fearing the old fellow to be having a fit of some kind. My concern was allayed by his immediately climbing to his feet again, relief giving way to a cold uncertainty. The old man, devoutly Catholic, had pulled a crucifix from behind his shirt, and now brandished it, trembling, before him. He recoiled as I reached out hesitantly, the words he uttered rendering me puzzled, astonished, and terrified.

“Guv’nor? But, it can’t be… you’re dead!”