July 8, 1938

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The wall was cracked.

Had there not been a pile of scat near the break in the wall, I doubt I would have paid it a second glance. As it was, the dog scat on the floor drew my eye to the crack and thus to the hidden door, which was ever so slightly ajar.

I slipped my Bowie knife out of its sheath and pressed on the door with the fingertips of my free hand, hopeful that I might see Turk in the room beyond.

He was not.

What I saw was a man seated at a desk, intent upon writing and little else. There were books on the desk and on shelves behind him. A typewriter stood off to one side and a light, as yet turned on, was on his right.

The writer’s nose wrinkled, and he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve no time for this,” he stated. “Put the food down and be on your way. I’m backlogged as it is.”

“Where’s my dog?”

“What dog?” His tone curt as he lifted his head. He squinted at me, removed his glasses, and then his mouth formed an ‘O’ of surprise. “Um, yes. Dog. Well, I don’t recall seeing any dog. Although, there was a bit of noise yesterday, or perhaps the day before. I lose track when I’m working.”

As he spoke, he closed the book he had been writing in, his eyes flicking from mine to the desk and back again.

“What are you working on?” I inquired, easing closer.

He put his hands protectively on the closed book. “A bit of memoir. Nothing more.”

“Ah. What’s that then?” I nodded towards the handwritten paper he’d been copying from.

He moved a hand to cover it, and I drove my Bowie knife through it, pinning him to the desktop and slapping my free hand over his mouth as he took a deep breath to scream.

“Tell me,” I said, “or I’ll start cutting off your fingers and feed them to you.”

“Last words,” he moaned. “They’re your last words. Whenever we can, they write them down for me. We preserve them. Read them at dinner when we eat your heart.”

I nodded, stepped around the desk, and wrapped my arm around his neck.

“What?” he began, but I silenced him by covering his nose and mouth.

I denied him my last words and suffocated him as he tried to free his impaled hand and failed.

#horror #fear #paranormal

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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