Charles buries his head in his typewriter defeatedly, the ding ringing in his ears. He struggles to bring words to the page, drowning his writers block with glasses of brandy.

‘God help me!’

He looks around the study, his books on the occult he had read for research stacked up around him, but no inspiration to be had from them. He buries his face in his hands, yet to notice you, the new maid, walk in with his lunch on a tray.