Interrupted

At the black basalt altar, the skeleton sat, propped up only by vines and the stillness of the air.  Carol and Lynn hardly dared breathe.  Bony fingers were still poised over the keys of the typewriter, a model that would have been as anachronistic when the room was built as now.  The stack of paper beside it was curiously intact, with all else fallen to dust.

“Can you see what he was writing?” asked Lynn.

Carol squinted.  “T...H...E... E...N... then it breaks off.”

They thought about this for a while.

“I think we should leave the door closed,” said Lynn.