Aroma de café.

Darkness falls across the land, the midnite hour is close at hand. Creatures crawl in search of blood, to terrorize y'awl's neighborhood, and whosoever shall be found, without the soul for getting down, must stand and face the hounds of hell, and rot inside a corpse's shell. The foulest stench is in the air, the funk of forty thousand years, and grizzly ghouls from every tomb, are closing in to seal your doom, and though you fight to stay alive. Your body starts to shiver. For no mere mortal can resist, the evil of the thriller...