Looking out of the towering, dark frames of the ancient, wooden windows, a full moon, glinting, bright and alive in contrast to the navy and midnight blue engulfing it, like a floating orb or crystal ball, perhaps foretelling the lives of the people who dare to look it in the eye, into the depths of its illuminated heart. Smokey clouds suffocating the moon's face, as a smoker might in the attempt to conceal the horrors from the outside. Inside the ancient castle with the view of the Turret with a gaunting ray of light seeping out its one window, piercing the cold night with one glance, eerily hanging in the air in comparison to the seemingly alone destination. Tall, slim, snake-like fingers of black shadow from the rapidly vibrating and shivering trees swaying with the resonating sounds of wolves howling. Left out in the frozen, wailing wind, they creep their way steadily through the glass of the old, rattling windows casting a mixture of light and eerie figures on the cold, stone floor, reaching, dancing to the rhythm of the gong from a nearby grand-father clock. 'Gong, Bong'.
A blood red candle, frozen in a dripping motion like it's been dead for a while, all alone and cold in the deserted castle room, along with its other lonely friends, an old, dusty book probably full of lost knowledge, a quill and other candles also with no light for comfort. All sitting on the ghost-like table cloth, haunting them, them all frozen from coldness and fear, the feather quill quivering from a draught through the window. The gong still disperses through the castle. As your eyes wonder the room, they rest upon a four-legged, two-armed person of whom always will sit in itself staring at the bookshelf, dust-fed and also abandoned as the rest of the room, full of musty books all which may have not been opened for years. 'Gong!' An old chandelier floats above the chair in danger of falling and crushing the old source of comfort for the man when he lived. Eyes. Millions of them looking from the sky with sorrowful glints, through the window into the room feeling sympathy as the clock's 12th gong rings out - the exact amount of times it's owner suffered the axe on his head. Midnight.