The dance

Past the trembling tower and to the back of a brick monolith. We sneak the two of us. The screws in soft rotted wood will not hold us back.

The entry point.

A room of white cadaver skin, peeling. It floats down in thin veins, tracing out a deathly pall on the floor beneath. What was butchered here? We float deeper into the heart of this sad building. So cold.

Cast a shadow down the long corridor, dogged in the heat of an English summer when all is rotting wood. Mirrored shadows floating up between us. We hear ghostly music.

Room 7 is haunted. We open the door, and a sad pilot rises from his seat to greet us. A hurricane blowing that never, ever returned. Dog-tagged and rooted to the spot, we watch him spin round in his seat. There is nothing. But air. Floating beneath an angel wing.

The door closes as we trip. Ballroom carpet folded back and the glimpses of parted wonder ever spinning on the dance-floor of a thousand dreams as the leaves fall. Fall. For ever. And the door closes shut. Behind.