Скачать или смотреть Necrome, Black Doors 3D, Act 2, Cat Miss Spock, Muder, Death and Rebirth

The
grand illusion will begin.

You've just crossed over. There's no way home. Your Next stop lies and fates control.

A world unchained.
A mind profaned.

The black doors.

Yes, I say I suffer of damnation, depression.
But I have a cat, a pet, my best friend

in this isolation.
The tale of cat "Spock"

behind the black door. A fusion of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Black Cat and The Raven.

Upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, weak and weary, over many acquaint and curious volume of

forgotten lore, came a sound so strange, unbidden, from shadows dark and hidden. A rustling soft and

kitten beneath my black door. “It’s but the wind,” I whispered. “Just the wind and nothing more.”

But as I turned near fainting, my pulse erratic quaking, there appeared a sight so haunting,

I dared not look once more.
A feline form was splendid,

her coat both dark and crescent, like night and noon convergent,

split by nature’s lore. A cat as black and white as a cow—mis-spurred name she swore.

With eyes like twin abysses and voice like starlet hisses, she perched herself upon my

desk, her gaze a tale unspun.
“Is this some dream infernal,

or spectre dressed nocturnal?” I asked the creature maternal, this cat of moon and sun.

And she replied, her voice like smoke:
“Your reckoning has begun.”

Not just a cat, but greater. Her shadow stretched a traitor to the

natural laws of being, it slithered across the floor. She spoke of guilt and slaughter,

of love drowned deep in water, of sins one swore to alter, secrets buried at the core.

“Why call me here, poor mortal? What do you implore?”

From depths of memory’s prison, the blackest scenes had risen: a hand once quick to anger,

a deed so stained with gore. The creature’s eyes now burning, my fragile mind discerning that she

was more than warning—she was judgment at my door.
An inner cry: “Spock, Spock!” ringing evermore.

Oh, Spock—she is no spectre. No phantom could be stricter. She wore my guilt potential, spun from

shadows on the floor. Her form began to shimmer, her outline grew much grimmer as her shadow

turned to cinders, yet grew ever more and more.
She was Spock. No escape. Her doom would I abhor.

And thus the night grew colder, my spirit weaker,

older, with cat Miss Spock still watching, her grin a devil’s yawn.

She swayed between dimensions, to truths too dark to mention, a creature born of tension

’twixt the dusk and coming dawn. And so my tale begins with her—for my soul’s already gone.

She whispered low and bitter as the candle’s flame grew thinner. Her words of poison splinter,

her gaze a frozen shore.
“Fate is the door you shutter,