Flint Maxwell

About half a dozen bodies were piled near the store’s entrance, the red of the blood a stark contrast to the white of the snow. There might’ve been more buried deeper, I wasn’t sure.

The wind whistled over Lake Prism, rocking the house, and not long after, I heard the dead boy calling my name. He sounded sad that he’d just missed me.

“Fuck off,” I mumbled as I lay down. “Fuck off.”

I thought it was a good idea, a logical idea, but I wish I had never turned back around. I wish I would’ve just left. Because, If I had done that, I would’ve never seen the man standing in the shadows.

The man grinning at me from the back-left corner of the store.