Author's note and disclaimer: Main characters, both implied and named, are not mine. A movie-verse drabble of exactly 100 words, including the title.
Hearing footsteps, I looked up from the article on Rasputin. The black-garbed, face-masked figure I saw slowly descending my spiral staircase was one that had haunted my adolescent nightmares; haunted my adult waking hours; shot me in the leg sixty years earlier.
Slowly I turned, spying a long expected, long-dreaded Grigory Rasputin sitting on one of the leather couches in my office. ‘Rasputin is back for him,’ I had earlier said to Abe Sapien. I saw my own certain demise in Rasputin’s dark eyes. Yet, I had no fear; I feared more for the one I called ‘Son’.
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