Illustration by Anon D’mowlse
Noises scrap across attic floorboards.
Climbing splintered wood into forgotten shadows,
Dank mold and dusty perfumes assault my lungs.
My shutter-eyes adjust to dimness.
Squinting, I crawl towards scratching noises under dark sloping eaves.
Tiny skeleton-hands withdraw into inkiness.
My skin slithers as my long-dead daughters’ face shoots out, snarling. Not possible!
Black eyes glint, her sharp fangs hurtle!
Madness swallows me…