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Weekly Contest #16
It's not a whiff, but a stench. It seeps through the cracks in the wood, through the slight gap between the frame and the door, through the rusted keyhole. I wretch as I step onto the frail porch, the wood is sodden and bends beneath my foot. I cover my mouth with my hand, trying my best to hold down the contents of my stomach as I realise something inside is dead and rotting.I hope it's not Mr. Williams in there. Flashes of a decaying corpse flicker through my mind. I imagine him there, sunken into a coffee-stained armchair, a daytime soap ...
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