Orphaned Sky, Edited, And Something Extra.

Hey everyone. I know you haven't heard from me for a long time, but I've been busy with school, etc. I've also been developing an outline for my ideas, so I haven't had much time to write. However, Orphaned Sky does indeed develop:

-CHAPTER ONE-

Cless Alvein peered through the skylight as the thunderous clouds cruised across the night sky. A fiery storm that had been brewing menaced in aimless anarchy as the rain drummed into the rooftop of The Rusty Barnacle Inn.
Cless was shrouded in a thick white blanket. With his biro sandwiched between his teeth, he scanned the newspaper, looking for where he had first seen the inn advertised. He had seen it once, and only once. The newspaper sprayed outward like a fan and in a sluggish effort, Cless’s hand crumpled it. The Epitome could be seen between his fingers like rings of words.
He released his biro from his teeth, reached for his half-full mug of milky tea which was sleeping on his bedside table, drew it to his lips, took a sip then carefully positioned it down beside him. A fireplace was facing his bedstead. It was kindled with passionate flames, its flares flickering endlessly. The candle that was liquefying into a makeshift ornamental chamber pot suddenly churned in the draught that rifled its way through the crevices in the door frame. Rims of light shone unsteadily from its waxy presence, casting images of wraithlike creatures on the floorboards. The clattering of an outside train echoed into the hours of darkness that loomed upon the murky sky. Branches from a tree crashed menacingly against Cless’s skylight - his vision of the outer world became obscured, vanishing into the cold night.
It was bleak on Langley Crescent under the late October night sky. Winter came early to the city that year. People wandering the streets had their heads deep in their collars and their faces screwed blindly against the wind.
A figure, slouching on a bench, shivered against the dank rain which blew frostily against his face. He was an odd-looking man; cinders from his Cuban cigar shed light onto his scowling deep-set eyes which were like two beaming headlights in the night. Long black wiry hair, blew against the wind like a pennant revealing his crow-like face which was disguised by a cavernous cloak-hood. His dark rotten-cherried lips muttered nonsense, ridiculing at passers-by as though he was drunk. He then took a sly glance at The Rusty Barnacle Inn, an action of seemingly little significance, but the cold glare in his eyes, as he heeded the flickering candle-lit room suggested there was more to it. It was time.
Under the skylight, Cless lay flat on his back, breathing hard, as though he had awoken from a nightmare or a trance. He sat up, one hand on his throat, the other countering his weight. Rubbing his weary eyes; the room came into clearer focus.
Cless ran his fingers slowly over his throat. It was painful. Turning on a lamp beside him, he scrambled out of bed, cut through the room, opened a cabinet and examined an assortment of medicines. He drew out a tablet from a box of aspirins and returned back to his bed and gulped it down with the rest of his now-cold tea. Sprawling back under his blanket, he tried to recall what he had been thinking of before being disturbed. It had all seemed so real … there had been a small girl that he knew very well … called Clara. He rested his hands on his face and began to concentrate hard; screwing his eyes, trying to remember her face, but it was difficult. So much had happened since he last saw her, so much in so little time.
Knock Knock. As the brief silence broke, his thoughts fled away.
Cless started. Rolling his sleeve back, he revealed a wristwatch. 1:59 am.
“Erm, just a second.” said Cless, gradually turning his head around to face the door. “A visitor, now?” He whispered.
Beep-Beep. 2:00 am.
Walking in a slumbered manner, Cless approached the door warily, the candle flame quivering ominously as he crept past. Grasping and steadily twisting the handle, the door slowly opened, leading into the dimly lit corridor.
Cless hesitated in the doorway unaware of the presence that lurked unseen within the shadows cast by the dull overhead lighting. He could feel the measure of uncertainty creeping in the back of his mind as he pondered the thoughts of delving deeper into the unknown darkness. He could sense the cold stare of the corridor, gaping open like a hollow cave. With the intention of returning to his room, Cless staggered back. But it was then, that something in the darkness caught his eye … something distinctly odd …

A glaring orange glow filtered through blackness, illuminating the corridor slightly before darkening again. Cless just about managed to get a glimpse of a man veiled in the wake of ghostly billowing smoke … cigar smoke.
“Who are you?” said Cless, with not a hint of the uncertainty that troubled his mind. “Did you just knock on my do-”
“I would keep that voice of yours down if I were you,” muttered a voice from the shadows. “We wouldn’t want any unwanted visitors now, would we?"
“Err – what?” said Cless, combing his black unkempt hair thought his fingers. He felt a rush of uneasiness curling in his stomach, as he slowly stepped back. “You just kno-”
“I’m aware of what I’ve done,” interrupted the voice. “I don’t take pleasure in leaving myself in the dark … Levare.”