Bumsy

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