“There wasn’t any skin on her fingers – each digit had been torn down to muscle, vein, and bone, making every movement they made look agonizingly painful. It was hard to believe, but somehow, the woman’s fingers had been flayed all the way down to the knuckle, and were dripping with fresh blood.”
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.