“I have something he needs,” the old man says over his shoulder.  He stares at her with pale blue eyes, almost gray, “But more importantly, I need something from him.”  Slow as dripping tar he turns away from her, puttering at an unseen device on a workbench, and she sniffs stale air.  Musty and old.  Dank and fertile with the smell of soil, stone, and mold.  When he turns back, his face is no longer kind—no longer human—and he takes two menacing steps to where she lay unable to move.

“I have other uses for you, as well,” his voice gurgles, lips slavering.  She tries to turn in her disgust, but cannot.  The old man leans close, his breath hot and acrd, and it burns where it touches the exposed skin of her...

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