PART 1 I got home late. Rain was pounding the windows. It sounded like a heavy man in a hurry to get in. Mrs. Malone had neatly stacked two weeks of mail on the sideboard by the whiskey: a selection of bills and assorted trash. The bottle's lambent smile wormed its way up my brain, making warm promises to wet bones. The mail never stood a chance. Halfway through the second whiskey, the telephone started to wail. It pierced the rain like an augur foretelling new wounds. I glanced at the black bakelite monster and waited, hoping it would grow tired. It didn't. The glass went with me to the gossip bench in the hallway. The handset hadn't slimmed in my absence. I picked it up but said nothing. "Mrs. Gabe?" It wasn't really a question. I recognized the thin male voice on the other side. My blood curdled for half a second. Not because of him. He was just an echo. "No," I said. The answer had nothing to do with my name, either. "We sent you a le...
dead man walking cold-blooded mask all fangs and ice beneath it lurks his raw truth breathless yearning dead man walking craving one last cigarette tasted the indecipherable and something inside assured him it was home dead man walking will let her burn him complete the job anytime she wants to one final fix ◼️◼️◼️ POEM inspired by #GRIMEANDSHADOWS, MRS. GABE: A SUPERNATURAL NOIR. PIC: Pexels, Farhad Irani (cropped).