We stayed out all night like vampires. We watched the moon like wolves. At dawn we staggered to our beds like zombies and slept like Death.
He calls me Pumpkin. I think it’s a term of affection until he cuts my eyes into triangles and scoops out my brain to put candles in my head
She points it out again, the photograph of the dead people that hangs on her wall. I’d never noticed until now that my face was among them.
The ghost of the woman upstairs is making all that noise again. Acting out her last living moments. We should have killed her more quietly.
You hear a muffled voice trapped within the wall. You claw away the paper and the plaster; then nothing. The voice is now inside your head.