The castle is mine, but I do not want it. No matter, because no one now shall ever have it. Sunlight will touch it; and upon it moonlight will rest at night. In winter the castle will disappear beneath white, and the still pool into which water pours will become obsidian and unbreakable. But within its walls nothing will breathe or walk. I will not be there. The castle will stand empty, and this is well. That is because there is no escape for me. The villagers will not allow it, nor will fate. And why should there be? There was none for my friend or his servant, and none for the hunchback or the fowler. Only oblivion saved great-grandmother. Oblivion, and poison. I have taken a sufficient quantity of the latter to kill me – eventually. I do not know how long I have – a few hours, perhaps. Long enough, if I am fortunate, to allow me to wait until night falls, until the birds of the garden grow quiet and the fire dims and dies, to wait until my antagonist begins his nocturnal course. Michael Minnis was born in Saginaw, Michigan in 1969. He has studied graphic design and creative writing. Eight Storys - in world first edition. But all these stories have one thing in common: Lovecraft's conception of the incomprehensible cosmic entities finds its sentitive continuation also at the first decade of the 21st century.