Ursula edged the handle open. Abruptly, there was a creepy creak. She unlocked the decomposed doors of the isolated teachers’ room. She entered. In the far corner, there was a leaping gas candle; blinking and dying. In the dreary rain, silver strips scarred the onyx sky, which sung its fuming melody. She scanned the room in trepidation; there was a basket strewn with blood red apples. Suddenly, there was another strike accompanied by pelting rain, which whipped the emerald hillside. She stared at the light from the strike; it illuminated an array of culinary. There were forks. There were knives. There were two tined forks. There was danger. A sinister cackle reverberated through the air. A distorted face appeared from the darkness.