The Return of Henry Chinaski
No Soul to Eat.
Henry Chinaski was not a man of faith, nor did he have a penchant for the supernatural. He was the sort of man who’d rather spend his time at the racetrack or nursing a cheap beer in a dingy bar. But even a man as grounded and skeptical as Chinaski couldn’t deny that something was off about his new apartment.
It all started with the smell. It wasn’t the familiar stench of stale beer or the sharp tang of cat piss that one would expect in a place like this. No, it was something much more sinister, an odor that reeked of rot and decay, a smell that seemed to reach down into the very core of Chinaski’s soul and twist it into something dark and grotesque.
And then there was the wallpaper. The previous tenant, a man by the name of Roger, had left the apartment in quite a state. The walls were adorned with a hideous pattern that seemed to pulse and writhe with a life of its own, as though it were a living, breathing organism. Chinaski tried to scrub it off, but the more he tried, the more the pattern seemed to dig its claws into the plaster and cement itself there.
But the real terror began on the night of the blood moon.
Chinaski had spent the evening as he usually did, drinking cheap bourbon and placing futile bets on horses that seemed determined to lose. He stumbled…
