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August 2022 Fiction Contest: Ghosts
The ghosts in the wall are never quiet.
Their sharp voices cut through the air and their forms drip down the wall. Inky black and made of smoke. I don’t know whether to scream or to cry.
To fight or run.
But I don’t think it would matter either way, because they are watching with eyes the color of blood. Of hatred and anger.
My thumb strokes the edge of broken glass, my only protection, but what will it do? Against a raging horde of creatures with claws, teeth, and death in their eyes?
“Go away,” I beg.
But they won’t.
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