Yard - Yog-sothoth-s

“The yard is not a place. It is a hinge. I am the hinge. You have walked my bounds for three days. Now you must choose: step through, or stay and become a post.”

He stepped through.

He tried to fire the pistol. The bullet left the barrel, hung in midair, and aged to rust in three seconds before dropping to the grass with a soft, final thud. Yog-Sothoth-s Yard