For whom the bell tolls (A Candela Obscura assignment)

In the dimming twilight of this Victorian, lower-class street a combination of gas lamps flicker weakly, contrasting with the sparking and crackling of the intermittent electric lights.  They cast long shadows that dance along cobblestone pathways. The air is thick with the gritty scent of industry and the distant echoes of city life. Against this backdrop, a man covered in dirt, his clothes stained and smelling of rotting meat, shuffles wearily down the narrow street.

The man reaches a weathered door and knocks, the sound echoing through the stillness of the evening. Moments later, the door creaks open, revealing a woman, his wife, who wears an apron from cooking the evening meal. The gaslight from within paints her face in flickering warmth.

"Honey, I'm home," the man declares with a disconcerting grin, the words escaping from a mouth that seems to bear the marks of an unsettling transformation. His once-familiar features now carry an uncanny distortion, a palsy, a grotesque alteration that evokes a sense of dread.

His wife, initially smiling, suddenly recoils in horror. The scream that escapes her lips is not just a cry of surprise but an earth-shattering wail of sheer terror. The gas lamps flicker wildly in response, as if the very fabric of the street recoils from the horror unleashed within that moment.