The ruined house’s door flew open and a teary, white-haired young woman stumbled past where Mr. Wizzle leaned on the porch. “You monster.”
Wizzle sucked on his pipe; breathing hellfire stoked him. He knew what she’d seen inside: the afternoon her brother locked her in the closet for eight hours.
Earlier, visitors had seen friends murdered; a too-hot bath that boiled the skin; marital bed violations. The possibilities were infinite, just like their memories.
Sadly, only at Halloween could humans be enticed into a haunted house.
Of course, that was a lie. The house was not haunted.
But people were.
Day 16 of 31: 100-word Drabbles.
Like what you’re reading? Sign up for my newsletter, and you’ll get all 31 days as an e-book collection at the end of the year (plus other goodies month by month)!