Henry Galley

Two weeks after my birthday something really awful happened.

“Then a shape got caught in the beam of my flashlight and I felt my heart skip a beat. It was shaped like a leg, a baby’s leg, like it’d been ripped from the socket.”

“I grabbed the handle and tore open the front door, ready to practically jump out, when I felt its skeletal fingers catch around my throat and fling me back into the hallway, almost effortlessly.”

I could wax poetic about the futility of human endeavor until I sounded like some acne-scarred teenager on an internet forum, but that’s not why I’m here today. You see, one of the promises I made to myself was to never get too involved with a job, to always keep my distance, to keep it clean and professional.