Tuesday, March 28, 2017

365 Creative Writing Prompts: Addict

When the residents of Overhill Road awoke on Sunday morning, they shivered in their beds. A few got up to investigate: why had the summer night left them so cold? Gregor Nox, a shoemaker, made it all the way to his front door before he discovered the source of his discomfort.

The thick doors of all the houses on Overhill Road had fallen down flat on their thresholds.

Gregor mused over this. Had he slept through an explosive blast? Had rats chewed through each door? Had thieves dismantled their only security measure? Overhill Road was on the way out of town, so they frequently saw travelers on horses, in wagons, or even on foot. Anything could have happened. Anyone could have done it.

He picked up the door to examine it. A splinter pricked his wrist, spilling blood. He found nothing there and dropped the door. Across the road, his neighbor was also staring at his fallen door and tugging on his beard in confusion.

By noon, Gregor and his neighbors had discovered a clue. The old, rusty nails in the door hinges were missing from every house. Fingernail marks showed where someone had dug the nails out of the wood frame. Gregor felt like he had swallowed a rock. He was afraid of the truth.

That night, he crept out without a lantern from under the blanket that now posed as his front door. He trotted down Overhill Road for a couple hours until he reached a forest village. Only a few hearths still glowed in the village homes. The tiny houses were all lined up along a single lane, much like the houses of Overhill Road. Gregor walked past them all.

At the end of the lane was a lean-to. It smelled of pig breath and mold, and the house it leaned against was abandoned long ago. Gregor traced the marks the fire had left on the outside wall. Years ago, the house had burned to a crisp, along with his wife and son. Penny was buried in the backyard; unfortunately, the son had lived.

Gregor approached the lean-to cautiously.

"Ferrin?" he called softly.

In the dark, a fox skittered over his feet.

"Ferrin?" he called again, even quieter.

Something stirred inside the lean-to. Then a dark body arose and slithered toward Gregor, crinkling and clanking as it went. Skin burnt black. Bones twisted askew. Organs melting into each other. And a stomach full of old, rusty nails.

"Hello, Ferrin," Gregor said.

"Nailsss," Ferrin hissed. "Iron."

"Why can't you just die like you're supposed to?" Gregor said.

Ferrin continued toward him, creeping low against the ground. "Iron."

Gregor stepped back. The blood on his wrist began flowing again.

"Mussst eat iron."

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