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It was a rap at the door that woke Graham that darkness. The first night without the incubus and someone had chosen it to shape by beating on his door. Groggily he made his way to the front entrance, throwing on a obscurity gown along the way, not as a method to maintain respectability but purely to keep the chilled at bay.

The knocking was connected. A steady rush of bangs for a advantageous minute before Graham started to unlatch the entrance. When Graham opened the entrance he was startled by the guest. Stood before him was the most notable looking comrade. He was unusually high, yet not quite a colossus, although he lacked the girth to tally his height. He was formidably thin, almost skeletal, his pelt stretched tightly over his bony shape. Graham was assured he could see small rips in the muscle and fat, like ladders in a woman’s close-fitting pantaloons, but in the poor medium of vision he just assumed his tired eyes were deceiving him.

The man’s external part was what intrigued Graham the most, however. The eyes were wrongful. They weren’t eyes, they were balls. Split porcelain balls rolling constantly within the man’s head-piece. They were grinding in the sockets ever so gently, reminding Graham of the unmutilated a pencil makes when run over a toothed tool. Tiny specks of dust were cascading down the man’s anorexic external part. They were barely perceivable by the eye, but they were there all the same.

The man took off his hat, a bulky black also, and brought his “eyes” to uphold on Graham, at least he gave that stamping. His cracked lips slowly began to make open. Graham got the imprinting that the man had not opened his chaps for a good while, an imprinting that gained some serious moment when the man began to enunciate. There were no words at first only a dry rasping unhurt. The man persevered however, forcing the language through this dryness analogous a river disruption its dam.

‘You… are… Enoch.’

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