It is late in the evening and you have retired to your special place after a long, grueling day. The magazine you are reading has just become interesting when suddenly there is a clattering sound from somewhere in the kitchen. You dismiss it as a fluke because there is no one else at home. You return to your interesting article when there is an ever so slight creak from the old wooden staircase leading up to your bedroom. You are now deciding whether it was real or an invention of your paranoia. You can feel your noise. You try to move to lock the door but you are suddenly paralyzed. You will yourself to pick up the cordless phone and you twist your body to lift the hand set. But you are now staring at an empty phone charger. You keep muttering to yourself, "God help me."
Yes. You've just shared an experience that millions endure throughout the world every day after the sun goes down. This scenarios had been played out since the dawn of man. Throughout time, the bodies of men have been ripped apart by beast and war. All of this leading to perhaps the most interesting of stories.
There is an old tale, its origins found among the ripped streets of Old England, in which there lived two lovely person, each completely engulfed by the others' mere presence. The 19th century had brought famine, darkness, and poverty along with its devastating cities, filled with filth and uncounted disease. Blood spilled mercilessly from open window, disease tearing through the young first, and then preying upon the old. Despite their undying love for the other, the couple could not help cut be swallowed by their cities' plague of ruin. The woman, known as Celeste, once possessed long golden hair, though she cut if off to be traded for few precious coins. Through she worked hard to earn pay as a maid in fancy houses, it did not do an off came her golden hair. Dirt covered her face and hands, and as much as she tried to was, it was permanently stained upon her ruby cheeks. The man, known as Samuel, worked in the local theatre, struggling in his work to earn coins for his lovely hand written pages, always filled with exotic lands and beauty, always far, far away from England. Although he was not terribly handsome, his hands were remarkable, as any man or woman would dare say. They were silk and cream swirled together, his palms strong and pink, his fingers long and childlike, and his fingernails the color of carnations. Though they were always smudged in ink from the feather pens, no one would deny their exquisite beauty. It was with theses hands that Samuel wrote night after night, in the dark, shadowy corners of their little loft.
