There is a forgotten woods. In it there is a forbidden zone, a spot, where an ancient mansion is positioned, situated deep in the heart of Faun Forest at its core. The building's outside structure is in decay, covered in slimy moss and choking ivy, which seemed to be strangling every inch of it. The interior is in shambles, some might say, “in a shambles.”

An elderly gentleman stumbled upon this place purely by chance. That is strange in and of itself being that the fellow has a severe limp which limits his locomotion. It would have taken him hours on foot to reach this desolate and truly remote location.

A peculiar room on the second level called attention to itself. Hearing a noise coming from the floor above him, the old man's curiosity got the better of him so he struggled up, one step at a time in an elderly hunching, staggering style, slow and methodical to the top landing, where he stopped to catch his breath.

In an instant, in the bat of an eye, the old man found himself inside the room in question with many questions on his mind. He prided himself on always being aware of his surroundings. How did he enter the room so quickly? He truly did not remember.

He observed something creepy. Something wrong is going on. The walls are covered in black, blue and dried red blood or paint, a room removed, remote, vacant, windowless, unoccupied for years on end. Now it took on an occupant, the strange man, short in stature, adorned in an old gray coat.

The mansion was empty except for this one room, furnished only with a rusted chair and an old desk situated at the center of the chamber, which for the moment becomes his home and one and only comfort.

There he remains alone, unattended, that is; there are his thoughts. They must count for something to keep him company. He still has them, although a question arises, persists, as to the state of his mental health. Are his facilities intact? Is his sanity in general to be suspect in this particular situation?

All of a sudden night came without warning. There was no place to sleep so he took up screaming to the top of his lungs, those reaches of his breath capacity, that could chill you to the bone with the horrific resonating. After a time he could be found sleeping in the up right position...That is if anyone had been around to observe. He gave the appearance of being dead or catatonic in his current condition, where he could last for hours on end in a still life position.

After considerable time he would awake, not knowing where he is, then reaching for a quill to write. An ink well stationed at the upper right corner of the writing surface is there. A blank white paper is there in front of him as well, starring up at him. Looking back, giving the same empty blank stare the man had on his face.
He decided to go to work so he dipped the writing utensil into the well and began.
While gathering his thoughts, collecting himself with whatever odd ideas might come to him, something strange happened. At that dire moment in the dark, where only a dim flicker of moon light shown through the door, a black fluid from the ink well came to life, emerged from nothingness into something, swirled serpentine like as a malignant evil mass, a formless shape spiraling ever so slowly, stealth like and deadly. First, it crept around the quill then up his unsuspecting hand and arm. It was a cold fiendish blob. An iniquitous being from hell moving with malicious intent.

The unknown horror took hold of its victim inch by inch, in cold calculating fluid movements of doom. A feeling of hopelessness and fear with measured pain, grabbed the old man's mind as well, down to the depths of his lost soul.
His body squirmed in agony as that hideous strength took over, took control.

Then the fluid mass maneuvered to his neck and face, a vile disease replaced human features. The old man became alarmed then frantic. The horror crept further about in a boa constrictor grip of death while its prey screamed out and struggled against the force of nature, which he learned quickly was not any known natural force he had ever encountered before.

The sinuous insipid slim crept around him, over the head, down through the spine simultaneously while he squirmed in agony, falling to the floor, trying desperately to get away by rolling towards the door, which was already slamming shut on him and any thought or hope of escape.

Then it began to consume him while he yelled out in pain but it was too late.

When the ink malevolence finished, it meandered back from where it came, back to the dark well, back to the silence of a grave in waiting.

Many years later, too many to recall; one fine sunny afternoon, years after the incident concerning the old man now long gone; John and Mary happened upon this same place, same location in the woods, purely by accident as chance would have it. They were newly weds out for adventure and fun and love was in the air.

Mary wore a bright yellow dress with a ribbon about the middle. John wore more appropriate garments. He sported a tan hunters outfit with brown leather boots for the occasion. They went inside the worn down mansion without hesitation, laughing and singing all the while. All the walls within were dingy gray and cracked from age. The couple made their way up to the second landing to the special room where things went south quite quickly. Mary ran in first and immediately fell silent and filled with disgust. She commented, “Yuk!...” “Who paints their walls black, blue and blood colors?” “This place sucks!”

An awful smell, something very peculiar emanated from the room. John entered and lost his smile instantly somewhere in the many cracks growing everywhere. They seemed to be multiplying in population by the minute right before his eyes. It became icy cold and a feeling of great sadness came over them. Not exactly the honeymoon they had in mind.

Night fell without warning. This was no place to sleep and clearly no place to be at any hour. There is no running water, no food, no furniture or lights. It is like being alone and isolated in a frozen hell box. They felt alarmed and nauseous. An overwhelming sensation of confusion, coupled with fear took the wind of smooth sailing from their sails of merriment.

The trek back to the village would be impossible at night. It was miles away on foot and an impractical concept to even contemplate or entertain at this late hour.

The reality of having to stay there without the creature comforts of a five star hotel horrified them. The idea they might have to stay the night dampened their spirits even further, crept into their thoughts as something untenable.

As they felt themselves being caught up in what at first seemed to be a prank or sick joke played on them by juvenile friends, an eerie mood surfaced on their reality.

Evil, raw and simple, was in their midst. It seemed to emanate from every corner of the dingy chamber. Their spirits really sank, like quick sand in an ugly swamp, covered in that long lost fog of desperation lingering thick and wet. Their puny minds were not equipped to handle such inconveniences.

That was not the worst of it. As they approached the desk they noticed the ink in the well begin to stir, to rise, to move in their direction. At that moment the iron door to the room slammed shut with an earth shattering sound. Naturally there were no windows and no way out.

Mary began to cry. John whimpered. They were ripe for the ink well, which sensed their vulnerability, their fragility, their futility. There was a lovely song bird barely audible through the walls, singing in the distance, which gave them a brief sense of security in what might turn out to be a longish night. What happens next is a mystery. The thing in the ink well waits. Only it can tell the story but it is not talking.