The door burst inward. Brill did not scream. His tongue was frozen to the roof of his mouth. His fear-glazed eyes took in the tall, vulture-like form -- the icy eyes, the long black fingernails -- the moldering garb, hideously ancient -- the long spurred boot -- the slouch hat with its crumbling feather -- the flowing cloak that was falling to slow shreds. Framed in the black doorway crouched that abhorrent shape out of the past, and Brill's brain reeled. A savage cold radiated from the figure -- the scent of moldering clay and charnel-house refuse. And then the undead came at the living like a swooping vulture.