These Long Nights: Beneath the Skin

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Max stood at the edge of the curtained window and stared out into the dark of the garden, searching for any sign of the creature. His eyes darted here and there looking for more substantial motion than the shivering of hedges, or the swirling interplay of shadow and fog. Finding none, he signaled Moira to join him at the window with small gestures.

The doctor's assistant rolled the trolley inside before her, one delicate hand securing the stack of papers. When one of the wheels squeaked like a poor violin draw, Max winced, feeling the sound move up his spine, wondering if the thing's howling had been in response to such a sound--and if it could hear it now. As she brought the loaded cart to a stop, Max forced himself to exhale, easing some tension from his chest. Taking a queue from his behavior, she crossed to his side, with a hesitant furtiveness.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice low.

“I witnessed a monster moving out there.”

“The Westchester Asylum is home to all manner o' monsters.” she replied.


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Max paced the room. His encounter with the doctor hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped and he was keyed…

These Long Nights: The Beast

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