HUMAN REMAINS: A HALLOWEEN TALE by Den Ghostliven.
The name of the city’s uncertain: the address of the residence information you’re unable to recollect, but it’s relatively easy to find a house that is never empty, for somebody’s always in.
That’s what a front door is for. An open invitation, allowing you access. And once you’ve made an entrance you can commence your investigation, using a multitude of clues and the tools at your disposal to guide you.
A scent, apparent; a presence almost felt in the air. A shadow, near impossible to detect. A sigh. A sign. An unmistakable stain that cannot be scrubbed away. All these things, lingering within lilac wallpapered walls.
These titbits are as good an indication as any of the nature of those who choose to call themselves occupants. They’ll return without running, never reluctant, comfortable that at least one place remains a constant in their lives and, in their eyes, is never susceptible to change.
It’s a good feeling to have someone to come home to. Remember? Perhaps not (like the shape of your rage, locked in a box and then promptly forgotten)
Which is how you find yourself here.
Such a pleasing feeling, squeezing tweezers, performing the precise extraction of individual follicles, tweaking each one and placing them in a brown manilla envelope, the teasing stretch of milky skin as each hair, taut like a violin string, reaches its limit and is plucked out forever.
Soon they’ll be as bald as a new-born baby.
And then the real fun can begin.