Count Luciano Wallachia sat alone in his study. Outside the tempestuous song of the raging thunderstorm was slowly, inexorably building to it's crescendo, the winds howling a banshee wail that had increased in volume over the past hour. The endless tapping of the falling rain washing down the window-panes. Again and again, the staccato daylight of the lightning illuminated the nobleman's study on frequent timing, casting shadows about his residence in the alps. Truly, twas not a night fit for man nor beast, but Wallachia was drawn towards the fearful symmetry of the maelstrom.

Soon he turned from his window to look at the lavish elegance of his study. Across his floor was an ornate Persian carpet, a veritable field of ornate decoration and intricate patterns. On the south wall was a massive fireplace, with a magnificent conflagration fed by a combination of dry logs and hot coals, thus creating a tapestry of orange and scarlet, causing the myriad shadows cast by Wallachia's furniture and collection of knicknacks to dance about the chamber like women at a debutante's ball.

Wallachia grew tired, then sat down at his desk, only to find a plain envelope, sealed in red wax. Curiously, the handsome count broke the seal, opened the envelope and removed the letter contained within. Like the wax, the ink was of blood-red color and seemed freshly-written as the words seemed to glisten in the firelight. It read

Listen to the wind Wallachia, it is God's wail. It has come unceasingly since our murders five years ago. God wails at our damnation and prays for your soul, for when I come for you thou shalt descend to meet dread Lucifer himself.

- M. Valenstone

Valenstone, that was impossible. Wallachia knew this for he'd shot him dead and they'd buried him five years ago. But someone had to have written this letter, yet no man alive knew of his crime. Wallachia was by no means religious, so he felt there was no chance that fool could awake from his grave. But still his mind drifted back to thoughts of Margurite, and how her death had cleansed her of Micheal's touch.

"How dare she choose him over me!" The count shouted at an empty chamber. He remembered how he'd invaded the bed-chamber on their wedding-night, the look of fear in her eyes, the minute thunderclaps of his pistol firing twice. To shots, two deaths. It was long over and there was none the wiser of his part.

Then, from the hall, came a faint echo. A faint tapping of two sounds echoing through the hall. As they drew closer, the sounds became louder and more distinct, and Wallachia made them to be footfalls. A part of him feared it was the corpse of Micheal, shambling through the halls like a moribund, decaying sonambulist. Wallachia gave a derisive snort as he downed a glass of wine. Dead was dead and Micheal was dead and buried. But still the footfalls came, as regular as the pace of the pendulum of the clock on the south wall of the study, seeming to measure the remaining moments of Wallachia's existence.

"You do not frighten me, accursed shade! Return to the hell-borne pit from whence ye came and trouble me no more!"

The footfalls came closer, closer, until they stopped just outside the chamber door. Wallachia slowly moved his hand to the drawer in which lay his revolver, the same pistol he'd used to cleanse Margurite and the world of Micheal Valenstone. He withdrew the weapon then hid it behind his back, as he got up from behind his desk and went to the door from which came two knocks, each knock clear as a bell and loud as a gunshot.

The door swung open, and there stood Wallachia's aged butler Hans.

"Excuse me sir," The old man whispered, "the hour grows late and I have decided to retire for the evening. I trust you shall have no further need of me?"

"No, not at all Hans. Just wake up in time to prepare my breakfast in the morn."

Yes sir." And with that, the wizened keeper reached for the handle and shut the door, leaving the count all alone with his thoughts.

Wallachia then felt a cold feeling slither down his back and spine, as if someone had just walked upon his grave. Slowly he turned about, and for a moment he was both blind and deaf as the old clock told the hour of two as twin sheets of lightning flared and two thunders uttered their voices, signaling the climax of the storm outside. Wallachia then realized he was no longer alone.

Before Wallachia stood a figure, tall and lean. Garbed in black and swathed in a cloak of the deepest scarlet. It's lustrous jet-black hair only served to increase the sheer corpse-like pallor of the figure's visage. It raised one of it's arms, its hoary, flesh drawn taught over strong bones, making what was once a lovely human hand into a baleful demonic claw. One of it's bony talons curled and uncurled, as if to call Wallachia over.

"Luciano Wallachia, your angel of death is upon ye." Bespake the figure, a cold, hollow echo, distant yet eerily familiar.

"Get away from me monster, the dead have no right to bother me!" Wallachia screamed as he fired his gun twice into the revenant specter, which remained as still as the air of a tomb.

The figure gestured without a glance at the ornate glass doors which led out onto the balcony, the precipice from which Wallachia viewed his holdings in the valley far below. The figure advanced silently towards Wallachia, who out of terror and dread awe, moved out onto the wet, cold stone floor of the balcony. Through trembling lips Wallachia asked:

"Wh-who are you?"

"Who was I? Just someone who has struck a deal with Mephistopholes," then the figure moved out of the shadows and Wallachia was meet by the unceasing cold dead stare of Margurite Valenstone, wife of Micheal, " and know this, your sins are many, yet God is merciful. But even if God forgives you, I never will. Now, let us descend into Hell, together."

Hans re-entered the room, having heard the shots of his master's pistol, only to see a swirl of scarlet descend upon his employer and leap off of the balcony ledge, taking the tortured soul of Count Luciano Wallachia with it to certain doom.

THE END