John climbed the unlit staircase with caution. A smell of old polish filled his nostrils, adding to the damp odour rising off his lambswool.
The top step was the only one out of the entire flight that had creaked and John now turned to search for the right room: It surely had to be the one spilling light out from beneath its oak-panelled door.
He found the door unlocked and walked in, his breathing still labouring after the stair.
Inside what constituted a library sat a man huddled over an old colonial style desk upon which he dealt cards to himself. A cheap cigar hung from his bottom lip. He didn't look up.
"You bring it?" the man grunted.
"Sure," said John. He took off his hat then reached into his inside pocket to pull out a long slim package.
The man gestured towards a cracked leather chair sat opposite his own. "You ready to play?"
"Yeah, but first I want you to read the manuscript, just like we agreed." John slid the envelope across the desk, disturbing the cards.
"We'll get to that soon enough," the man laughed, barely hiding the condescension in his voice. Setting the document aside, still in its envelope, he said, "C'mon let's play a little game first."
"I want you to read it now," said John, starting to feel annoyed.
"OK, but I hope it's not full of purple prose," sighed the man, his tone now flattened to one of resignation.
Right then a bolt of lightning cracked overhead before thunder rumbled on outside. Rain started to lash down on the roof and a distant window could be heard banging open and shut. It was set to be a dark and stormy night.
"Just read my story," spat John.