Gone

The study was a small, compact room, old fashioned, well furnished. The tall window was open, welcoming the elements, letting in the angry, stinging bullets of rain and flashes of lighting, beats of thunder clashing in rhythm to make some grotesque ensemble. A dark, polished oak desk lay about ten foot away from the window, the scratches in the wood deep and old, tarnishing the beautiful dark colour. Behind the desk was a chair, composed of oak and a dark green leather, abandoned during the terrible storm. Opposite the dest was a small matching wood table, directly in front of the gaping window, now resembling some huge open mouth swallowing the room. The rain continued, lightning occasionally illuminating the corners and crevices of the room. On the line table stood an antique globe, spinning madly, despite the lack of hands to spin it. With its spinning the axis cracked and caused a sickening rattling sound, but on it spun. The next flash of lightning and a pair or thin, pale hands reached in through the open window and wrapped around the globe, skeleton like hands, nothing but bone and worn white skin. The room plunged into darkness again and when the next flash of lightning came, one thing had changed.
The globe was gone.