There stands a house on Marlow Lane. In this house lives a deafening sense of silence. It’s tucked away so tightly amongst the great oaken trees it was built within that no sound, nor wind, nor creature of earth or sky dare to trespass. The wind chimes on the porch no longer sing, the wooden floors no longer creak, and the grandfather clock on the second floor landing sits quietly alone. Forever frozen at 3:03pm. The house has never seen a murder, nor was it born on sacred ground. No curse was ever laid on the clay below, no ritual ever desecrated its heart. Opposite of this fact, no children have ever laughed in its homely halls, no Christmas gatherings were ever made into memory in its grand living room. For you see, the house died long ago, breathing life no more and never again.
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It was a warm morning in August, an uneventful Friday that was going to be hot and sticky. The kind of late summer day cursed with a humidity that left the outside of the basement windows peering into the morgue covered in condensation. A soft dew obscuring curious eyes from taking a gander at the new addition. If one were to have dared to sneak a peek inside, they would have seen what one would expect. The cold slab, the freezers, the tray with blood soaked autopsy tools, the body of Mrs. Mortensen covered by a white sheet. Not a thing out of the ordinary. When it came to small towns like this, where everybody knew everybody, the news of the old widow having died the night before had turned to quick gossip. It wasn’t a surprise to see her there, it was to be expected that an autopsy would need to be conducted before she would be put to rest next to her long-dead husband in the small town cemetery just a mile down the road.
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AuthorA collection of short stories and flash fiction pieces. These original tales are the property of Alycia Davidson 2017-2023. This section of my site is rarely used now as I tend to post more short stories on my Patreon. Archives
July 2023
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