I’m not even really sure. “Murph, Murph, Murph. Desi sex The dust. He put his glasses back on and confronted a ghastly sight: a skeletal corpse, mummified flesh stretched tight across ancient bones, leering at him from a cul-de-sac, its jaw horrifyingly ajar. “Death is in everyone’s future,” he said. The cell door behind him opened and another monk came into the corridor. We might call such a feeling “the creeps” but Murphy (as he was called), a man who, well into his 20s, had never heard a ghost story and would not understand one were it told to him, a man who considered crumbling old cemeteries by moonlight only a quaint shortcut home and who, upon seeing the vacant façade of a Victorian mansion bedecked with cobwebs, overgrown with strangling vines,
