Henry Creel loves the dark corners of places. The things in which hide in the shadows, usually unseen from eyes that don't seek anything more than light and comfort. There are interesting things that lie in wait; the truth, usually.

Of course he finds the door with the spiral marking.

And of course he opens it, stepping within the wide clearance of an attic room.

The man approaches the desk and the typewriter and the Writer, too, if he's here. He keeps his hands clasped behind his back, looking about the darkened room.

"I'm not sure this is what I expected," he says, casually, curiously.