I found him in the loft one night, taken aback by a ghastly sight.
He sat there in a tattered, dusty suit. His face a deathly pale, his eyes two petrified marbles suspended at the entrance of endless wells.
Even in the dim light his skin seemed to have a papery translucence to it - long boney hands draped over his stick thin knees, in stark white contrast to his dull black suit.
The mouth suddenly moved - "I won't bite". The mumble came from his thin lips suddenly, strained and hoarse from decades of disuse; his voice withered and full of dust.
I was still frozen, my feet sinking into my step on the steel ladder. My mind was still trying to process and accept this entity before me whom I'd never though possible.
He coughed what sounded like a brief cackle, then slowly turned his head and in turn breaking our gaze. My transfixion seemed to lift.
"I needed somewhere to stay", he broke. "Anywhere to contemplate this state I'm in." The voice sounded clearer this time, as if the cobwebs had