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“The key to number eight”, said the realtor, “sorry, I can’t accompany you”. He appeared anxious.
I unlocked the weatherworn door and tumbled inside. It was gloomy, smelled rancid. Wallpaper hung from the walls, a chandeleir swayed to-and-fro. A clock tick-tocked. I drew a curtain, it fell to the floor. Before me, a child. His eyes burned into mine, I stepped back stumbled and fell.
My phone rang. I was in my armchair. Surely, I’d been dreaming.
“Realtor here, I have your umbrella, you left it at number eight”.
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Thanks to Sammi Cox for hosting the Weekend Writing Prompt
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An intriguing end.
He’s probably thinking the same! Thanks, Sadje.
👍🏼👍🏼👍🏼
Oh, this is so marvelous and mysterious! Well done, Keith.
Ooh this is a spooky one Keith – love it!😃