A short horror Postcard Story about finding your way home when you are being hunted.
Category: Fiction
She clasped and unclasped her fingers, her nails digging into the softness of her palms. Where the hell was Jason?
Since the first night, my flesh has become soft and pliable—plastic even. The flesh where I was touched can stretch so far from my calf I fear it may snap. It functions as my skin always has, but it is clearly no longer my skin—it is a spreading digestion of it.
Something had smashed the old saloon, like a big boulder or a fallen tree. Yet, nothing remained to explain it.
I stepped slowly, but every crunch I made filled the silence. In the road, where the tall man had stood, remained only two shoes.
There is a valley in the north mountains where people grow like trees, walk around like men, then lose their features and dry to deadwood in the winter.