Harold stood over his father’s casket. The heavy mahogany coffin’s top was propped open. Tears flowed freely from Harold’s eyes and continued down his cheeks to his collar. Allowing himself to lose control, he bent over and wrapped his arms around his father’s lifeless body. Richard’s cold, dead cheek pressed against his own.
Harold blubbered and stammered, “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“That’s okay, Son.”
Harold released his grip and stumbled backwards. Something wet covered his hands. Lifting them up, he was horrified to see blood dripping from them. His shirt felt wet, and he found his chest covered in blood. When he looked around, the entertainment room no longer appeared warm and inviting with its tongue-and-groove pine walls and ceilings. Instead, it all looked pale, gray, cracked, and decaying. The glasses hanging from the bar began to vibrate and create a minor harmonic that sent chills through his body.
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