death-in-the-orchard

Scrunched into the short, and not exactly comfortable, fibers of the Indian rug he kept on the floor of his private study, Abraham van Hellsing lay face-down, squinting into the gap beneath one of his bookshelves. “Nothing. Of course, nothing… I can see nothing.” Grumbling, he pushed himself up and sat grumpily for a moment, scowling at his bookshelf. He listened for a sound, a scrape, a squeak. But he heard nothing. With his lungs bursting with aggravation, Abraham sighed heatedly as he commenced to do exactly what he had wanted to avoid. He got to his knees and began to remove his knickknacks and the other delightful de