Not first; nor last. But steadfast, we slowely approach. Each of us overtly sensitive of the other's footsteps. The path is coming to a head.
The building, old and vanquished lay just beyond the remnants of an old white picket fence. A shattered wall is hung from invisible strings near the basement door.
Red bricks surround the myst of the cold November night, and we on a devil's errand clutch our crosses more out of a twisted sense of Santeria than christianity.
For Pagan Gods and Christ are with us tonight. We slide like a carving knife into the black, the air is thin for fear as we move closer to the very place where we go to be one step beyond.
Beyond us lay the door.
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