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Weekly Contest #217
Elias tried to make out the blotted words as he held the small piece of torn paper, and put his hand on his face in confusion. Whomever wrote this letter, did he rush? When did he leave? And why did the letter rip? There must be the complete letter, somewhere. The ink had smudged, leaving a few fingerprints that appeared monstrously thick, like they belonged to a hand not human. You have until midnight the chunk of paper warned. He slammed the antique drawer back in place and crumpled the paper up and stowed it away in his left breast pock...
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