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Submitted to Contest #328
The damp stench of decay struck first—heavy, putrid, unmistakableLessie Barrett’s apartment had been steeped in death for days; her body sprawled in her own rot, air too thick to breathe. The carpet had been soddened with blood, stained like coffee on paper—fast, irreversible. Although it was dark, the sallow wallpaper emitted a sickly yellow glow.I crouched beside her contorted body, her eyes sewn shut—almost as if she were hibernating. My partner, Robert Rockwell, knelt beside me. His hands hovered over her limbs, careful, seemingly revere...
Submitted to Contest #327
Who am I? I pulled a woolen blanket from my head. Had the walls begun moving again? Pulsing in and out like lungs. Had I been drinking again? Mindless attempts to silence something. My senses were grounded by the soft humming of my cat, Tober. She sat beside me, composed. It’s Tober like October, get it? October is my wife, June’s, birthday month. I thought it’d be a sweet name—also considering they act eerily similar—but her stale nature shut it down. Lots of people think it’s stupid, June especially. But I think June can be stupid; she lef...
Submitted to Contest #326
(This story contains mentions of death.) Not long after the death of her beloved aunt, Belle Dubois arrived at her inherited estate that loomed over the quiet outskirts of Paris—a regal home of whispering corridors and shuttered windows. The locals referred to it as “la maison sans sommeil,” or “the sleepless house,” for its flickering candle-lit halls swallowed the house in a darkness greater than the one they attempted to cast away. Within the ashen walls lingered the smell of oil paint and golden dust that danced in your airways. During t...
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