The door is shaking so hard that you feel as though it will disintegrate at any moment. Its vibrations wrack the entire room; the stand from which your bag of IV drip hangs is rattling, as is your bed's frame. The entire room trembles in fear, like a child cowering underneath its sheets, hiding from a dark terror behind a closet door. You can make out a distant howling of wind through the sound of the quake; oh, how you wish that it is only as simple as a tornado in the middle of an earthquake. But deep in the dark recesses of your soul, you know that what is outside of the door is far more malevolent than a mere show of violence on nature's behalf. As the unrelenting shaking grows, it slowly invades those recesses of your soul, destroying the barriers between them and your consciousness, bringing the most primal and animalistic nightmares forth; and still, you cannot scream, for help or out of pure trepidation.
With the force of a giant's punch, the door slams open. Silently, you watch in horror as you gaze out of the frame into a black abyss dotted with glistening lights reminiscent of light shining across the backs of a million carapaces. The howling is like the death rattles of a god. Every fibre of your being resonates with the disharmonious music. The storm in is full force now; all of the air feels as though it is being sucked into the fathomless darkness by a whirlwind. Your instinct is to run away, hide in a corner, and screw shut your eyes, but you are fixated upon the fissure of reality. You thrash about in your bed, making muffled croaks, ignoring the spasms of pain that shoot through your limbs and torso, all the while watching that aberrant gap in the wall, as though an abomination would crawl out of it. Your fear is almost palpable.
Finally, as if to collect your terror in a pail, it comes. It first appears as a dark speck moving across the pinpricks of light in the background of the unholy vista. Then, you see it flying toward you; the gallows. The obsidian structure smashes into the floor, shattering into innumerable fragments, which collect by themselves and coalesces once more into that unbearable sight - the gallows. Reflecting upon its hard surface is a conflagration devouring an apartment. Out of thin air, a rope appears above the gallows and ties itself to the hanging arm. The other end stretches towards you and wraps around your neck, wrestling you from beneath your sheets, pulling you to the gallows. You fight to
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