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Weekly Contest #355
By noon, everyone in Hollowmere had come to see whether Marta Bell was truly dead. They arrived in black coats and polished boots, carrying lilies and candles. The church stood at the top of the hill, narrow and grey against the winter sky, its bell tower leaning slightly to the east. Inside, the air smelled of old incense and the bitter herbs Marta had once hung from the rafters to keep sickness from entering. Her coffin rested before the altar, closed by request of the priest, though everyone knew the request had not come from him. Marta h...
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