The thunder pounded the rain onto the windows as the endless night droned on. So our scene continues as the pale lover enters the dank room. His glassy eyes stared down onto naked wife. Though death had taken her soul, her body still remained almost perfection. All that was flawed was the bloodstained wound embedded into her skull.

There was no naturally humane way to cure death. This thought did not prevent him to pursue to reach his goal. It was only an inconvenience. Blood dripped down her skull like the raindrops did on the window. He held her body in his embrace, gently placing it on a cold table.

It was a desolate room filled with scrolls and books. Dust three inches thick covered them. These were five hundred year old texts authored by the very first Faust: Dr. Faustus. They contained the ancient art of Necromancy, the art of raising the dead. If modern methods could not bring his beloved into his arms again, then he would revert back to the ways man defeated death in the past.

Hours passed. Thunder played dissonant chords outside as though they sensed the awakening of the forbidden knowledge. Meanwhile the pale lover's obsession intensified. Practices of the magic became daily rituals. But though these actions were repeated, the pale lover still could not raise his beloved out of her slumber.

"Damn. Damn. Damn." His fist hammered the concrete wall, "What is it? Why does she not wake? I have tried so many times now to the point my hope as too swallowed in the darkness. No... No I can't give in. She's life. I cannot lose my war with death!" Still he perused lovebird. Inspiration became obsession once again. It was a never-ending cycle of failure.

Until that night when she rose again...