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Weekly Contest #377
CW: Death, grief “It’s just the hinges,” Dad said, for the third night in a row. I didn’t believe him. Neither did Biscuit. Our shell-hound was pressed flat against the far wall of the kitchen, plates clacking against each other, staring at the open cellar door and the dark below it. Hinges don’t wait until 2:14 a.m. to break. It started the night Dad powered it. The door came with the house. Heavy grey steel, set into the kitchen wall at the top of the cellar stairs, with a wheel in the middle instead of a knob, like something off a ship i...
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