Drip...Drip...Drip. Down the hall, I hear it.
My wife's apple and cinnamon candle has been lit. Her favorite.
I move closer toward the bathroom, inch by inch. The floor cold under my feet.
I reached the door. I held my breath as it opened. My eyes beheld a single candle flicker, and a corpse hand sticking out of the tub.
The hand beckoned me to join her. I fell to my knees as blood filled my mouth. The taste of pennies was her revenge.
About the Creator
Desirae Anaya
What gives the soul direction? What makes the eyes grow wider and the breath escape the lungs? Stories. Stories and storytellers. I see the story that is buried deep within the crevices of stone. It is my duty to expose that story.
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