The Haunted Traveler May 2017 Edition

weaselpress

After a brief hiatus, The Haunted Traveler is back to bring you some of the best horror out there. Open up and tread with caution, the next scare is just a page flip away.

Every day or so, I dismantled half a roll of generic paper

towels, dousing them with water to mop the floor

beneath the unopened refrigerator. From both appliances,

there wafted no odor, and any sounds heard rose

in their shakiness the further I walked away from the

kitchen.

I didn’t wish to bother the maintenance man, as I

was happy enough to live in my first apartment as a

single woman. I thought to call the police, or the fire

department, regarding the locked, yet lively microwave.

I could hear it. Then I didn’t. I knew something

was amiss. But the fear of ridicule suppressed any inclination

to voice my concern.

Towards the end of my first month as a resident, I

returned home from work, cutting my sandaled feet

on glass trapezoids gracing the concrete tributaries

like shards of imported beer bottles on hazelnut riverbanks.

I crouched to the ground as a corner impaled

the crease between my big toe and the ball of my foot.

I rocked back and forth, and noticed the shadow of

what I thought was a tiny child. Or a malnourished,

sleep-deprived woman like myself. On the floor, I

steadied myself with a bent arm, extending my torso

forward to better look at the girl who broke the glass.

She mimicked my lame martial arts routine, blinking

slowly, dry skin trailing down each corner of her

chapped mouth. Her bottom lip was pure mud. Blood

gone dry like the curdled milk she swirled in a tiny,

coral clay mug that shook, enclosed by half-eaten fingers.

Her knuckles, knobs of thickened skin, white at

the border though purplish on the inside. She stared at

me, demanding I offer my insides. I shook my head. She

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