by Phil Brucato Like the hidden treasure of some monster temptress, the air itself divides, splitting and folding outward, revealing blackness and faint light within. Like the last breath of a dying wino, hot winds rush from the hole and bathe the basement in twitching filth. Like a landfill of lost souls, the barren fields of Malfeas glow on the other side of the gateway. Lit by green balefires, the landscape twists and writhes. Organic. Alive. It’s too much. It’s more than Sean can stand. Sean gets off lucky. Ryan has nothing to vomit, no reason to turn away and no power to do so. What the fuck…?