Summary
Within the liminal space of a sepulchral antiquarian bookshop at midnight's hinge, three damned entities convene: a horned demon flickering with sulfurous mischief, the Reaper clutching his scythe like a cellist's bow, and the translucent specter of a courtesan murdered mid-laughter. They pluck leather-bound volumes from cobwebbed shelves, their spectral fingers tearing open narratives that bleed into reality. Each tale becomes a visceral possession—the demon embodying a deranged aristocrat burying his rival alive beneath flagstones; Death himself inhabiting a physician negotiating with mortality over a poisoned chalice; the wraith reliving her own tragic demise through a Venetian courtesan's vengeance. The boundary between storyteller and story dissolves as gothic tropes—animated corpses, Faustian bargains, suffocating guilt—manifest through Weimar cinema's expressionist grammar, the very air thick with the scent of decaying parchment and psychic wounds.
Synopsis
A demon, a reaper, and the ghost of a prostitute read gothic short stories and act them out.
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