In the mad professor’s house, the humid corridors are thick with woe.
I am looking forward to tea with Vincent in his smoking robe.
In the mad professor’s house it’s hard to keep the chairs from drifting
to the ceiling.
In the red salon the Flying Duchess, her skullhair afire, remarks how
superstitions from two
distinct centuries have combined to age his walls.
Against the Mad Professor’s ancient blue tower, white waves crash all
night long.
"What an odd question," Victor replies, "You speak as if you were not
yourself.
What has the Inspector got against my family anyway?"
In the Mad Professor’s house inbred conversations near their end.
What reply is there always gets tangled among cobwebs or lost in echoes.
In the Mad Professor’s brain, regrets turn around themselves like Mesmer’s
lamp.
Her psychic wit wears thin and she tires of knowing everything in advance
of its perfection.
In the Mad Professor’s house, clocks tick to mark the buried time.
The tea grows lukewarm and the bags go limp and dry out on their saucers.
In between these mad and muffled walls understanding settles
slower than dust , the creaking door or Livia’s eyes adjusting to the
candlelight.
Peering into the dark room they open in shock when she recognizes
the horror
her mouth makes a wide "O" before her throat releases its animal scream.