Clutter pressed in from all sides. Claustrophobia gripped Andrea’s lungs as she pushed further into the room.
“I’m looking for Jonathan,” she said, barely above a whisper, to the shabby man on the stool beside the door at the back of the room.
“Ain’t in there,” the man replied and slid his boot to block the door.
“Please, move,” she said, only slightly louder.
He shrugged and pulled back his foot. She slipped through the battered old door.
“Told you he weren’t in there,” the man said as he slipped off the stool and followed her in, unfastening his belt.
Most monsters, the real ones anyway, tend to be human. This guy certainly falls into that category.
I wrote two stories this week, both that went to far darker places than I had originally envisioned. I actually preferred the other story, but decided to save it for the next edition of 100 Tiny Tales of Terror, which will likely be out in the next couple months if I get my butt in gear and get back to the writing I’ve been shrugging off in favor of warm weather and sunshine.
Written for Friday Fictioneers.
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