Shitty writing

One by one the various lamps, torches, and fires that painted the brick walls and cobblestone streets of the city with long shadows and a orange glow were extinguished, leaving nothing but the faint apparition of pale moonlight wavering down through the grey clouds above. It was said that after the last of the lights went out that the city itself would sleep, and its dreams would spill out down the dingy streets and grimy alleys, twisting and rearranging them into an impossible labyrinth that sought to confuse and disorient anyone foolish enough to venture forth from their home. A thick fog crept towards the city, its long misty tendrils snaking and weaving between the silhouettes of ancient buildings and tall spires, until the entire city was constricted by a dampness that squeezed you and filled your breath with its moist seed.
Daniel Pryce felt like the last man in the world as he hastened down the street, taking great care as to not get lost in the maze of winding lanes and narrow paths. He held with him a small personal torch he could light at will, a rather odd contraption in those days, and he used it to focus his eyes on a map from time to time to regain his direction. His home was miles away in the skirt of Mount Blan, and the dark city he now found himself in was a far cry different than it was on his previous, and only, daylit venture through it.
The shops and parks seemed older, and sadder somehow, as if the dripping of the fog and the pale moonlight revealed the city's true character. The sounds of his bootsteps against the cobblestones were swallowed by the dense fog, leaving only the occasional cough or slamming door to remind him that there was still life left in the night. He had been wandering for what seemed like hours, until he finally came across the same strangely ordinary two-storey building from around the turn of the 19th century he had been at three weeks prior. The last time he had been here in the daytime, The Glass Rose seemed to him no more than a run-down shop that sold all manner of strange trinkets and oddities, most of which looked like they should be displayed behind glass cases. The large window display was completely empty save for an enormous glass rose hanging from the ceiling against a white background a few feet back that caught colored light from the rose even in the darkness. It was a simple thing, really, made up of many thin pieces of clear glass joined together to form a rose shape that hung from the ceiling by several chains. He hesitated a moment, looking up and down the street for any signs of life. Then, he took a deep breath before he rapped three large knocks upon the thick oak door.
A minute later Daniel could hear the sound of footsteps coming towards the door from within the house, then the heavy thud of wood being pushed aside, followed by the creak of hinges as the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was a middle-aged woman carrying a small candle, her black hair tied back behind her head in a neat ponytail. "Daniel," she said with a grin, "I see you've reconsidered my offer." In the flickering light of the candle she could see the worried look on his face and knew he had seen her again.
"Yes, yes. Now let me inside before somebody sees."
"Now, now, Daniel. That's no way to treat someone you're asking for help."
"I don't have time for you games Rosa," he said, "I've brought the money." He pulled out his wallet that was filled with hundreds of pounds in cash and threw it to her.
Rosa looked at the money for a few seconds, then gave a deep sigh and waved him inside. "Fine, fine. Come in, we'll deal with your manners later." She motioned him inside, and shut the door behind him. Lit only by Rosa's flickering candlelight, Daniel watched the warped shadows of the strange and exotic curiosities Rosa spent her life collecting dance across the walls as they walked. He saw strange jars filled with vague floating biological silhouettes, shrines made from what he hoped were animal bones, and even a suit of armour adorned with a skull-shaped helmet. In all of it there was a sense of decay and age, as if the items had been collected from some forgotten time and place that only Rosa had known.
"So, tell me Daniel," Rosa said, setting the candle down on a small table as she sat down in an armchair next to the fireplace and motioned for him to take the other one, "what made you reconsider my offer?"
He took off his hat and coat, and took a seat. "I didn't want to do this, but I'm running out of options. I went to Father McGinnis at St. Mary's and he told me about your store, and they didn't believe me."
"Did I not tell you  the first time we spoke?" Rosa said, shaking her head disapprovingly. "No matter how desperate you are, you should never go to the church, especially for something like this."
"They told me that I'd gone mad, that I was delusional. I was worried they would try to get me locked away in a mental asylum," he said, closing his eyes as if fighting back tears. "You are the only one who believes me."
Rosa nodded sympathetically. "Hence my rate you refused to pay my dear. It's a seller's market."
Daniel stood up and said, "Hence my refusal to pay your extortionate rates! Preying on the grieving vulnerabilities of a man is wrong."
"Perhaps, but it is profitable," Rosa said.
"Alas," Daniel continued, "I do not begrudge you of this insult any longer and am willing to pay your fees, however high they may be." He sat down and took a deep in a deep breath with his nose. "Also I also recognize you did warn me not to go to the church, and for that I am grateful, and regretful I did not listen."
"Frankly, I'm surprised you made it out. Listen, one thing you must understand is that you do not have a trifling condition cured by a factory-produced medication. You will see that what this requires is a rather special item, and the cost of my services is not as steeped in greed as you might think. Does this mean you are prepared to do what it takes?"
"Yes," he said desperately, "anything for my dear Sara."
"Good," Rosa said, standing up and walking over to a small chest that was placed under the window. It was an ornate wooden box, with gold-plated handles and a brass lock. She opened the lid and pulled out a small black velvet bag. "Here is everything you need to get started," she said, tossing the bag to him.
He caught it, and fingered the outside of the bag, feeling the hard objects within. He could feel what was definitely a vial of some sort, along with a collection of smaller objects he couldn't identify. "What do I do with them?" he asked.
"It's simple," she said. "In the bag are fragments of the skull bones of Saint Chere, who some call the Dreamer. Before you go to sleep , add a few drops of holy water into a bowl and grind a few skull shard into a paste, maybe half a table spoon. Take a very thin line of fishing wire and apply the wet paste into your ears so that you can't hear any sound from the outside world, and push the fishing line into the paste, so that after it dries you can pull them back out again. Lay down and go to sleep using the breathing exercises we discussed. There you will be able to here what your wife is trying to tell you."