Collection

writing, horror, art, short story

As my eyes became accustomed to the light I noticed at the same time that there was an awful smell that permeated everything.

I woke up not knowing where I was; I could not tell what was up or down. My body could not move, and I could not see. For the first hour or so (or so it felt) I spent all,of my efforts on calming my nerves; the pounding of my heart, and the rushing of blood was all I could hear. My imprisonment came to an abrupt halt when I realized I was in a room . . . Not a box, as I had feared. As my eyes became accustomed to the light I noticed at the same time that there was an awful smell that permeated everything.

I sat up off the hard surface I was laid on, and then stumbled my way in the dim light. As I did so, I bumped into a table. There was a sliding sound. My mouth went dry. By this time I had guessed where I was.

On the outskirts of the city there was an old house. There was an old myth about a strange ‘man’ who collected hands–specifically the left ones–and eyes.

The hands he kept for himself. The eyes he gave to his dead lover.

ashkenaz

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