The last blog reader was slowly leaving the room. His/her hand had reached tentatively for the light switch as the persistent quiet could only be matched in future by darkness. His/her eye scanned the room looking for he/she knew not what. Was that a scratching noise? From under his/her feet it seemed to rise. Unseen heretofore was a richly aged, lichen encrusted, and dirt obscured handle and latch of which Tolkien had failed to write a complete history. A male or female hand reached down, and with knuckles whitening with the strain and shaking in fear, pulled. The gaping, black hole of the Pit hearkened to either the Crack of Doom or perhaps (he/she hoped) The Narrow Way. The smell of wormwood and souls baking in sweaty, humid, and chaffing torment rose to the nostril of the last acolyte. A damp form crawled out like a majestic sea lion and threw itself on the floor of a dryer Idaho.
"I've been to Charleston." said the heaving mass.