The descent felt easy, effortless and swift. Trance like. The Basilisk’s stare singed the back of her mind, commanding her to descend as she hovered over each step, gliding almost, downwards. She reached the landing of the staircase and turned to face the massive clock that stood in the centre so imposingly before continuing further down. The hands, she saw, were spinning in a silent frenzy, forwards and further forwards in time. She stood in front of it, as if mesmerized by its constant movement. It felt strangely soothing. The Basilisk hissed at her hesitation, as his behest was for her to descend down into the gut of the House on the Hill.
Helen Marie Joyce 