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.

anished child, though my lack of complaint rooted

itself in characteristic complacence.

I closed the refrigerator door, turning to the girl who

then pointed at my forehead. “Sky, sky,” she calmly repeated.

I craned my neck to face what remained of the

shattered microwave door. My face was two shades

paler, my eyes betraying some psychosomatic jaundice.

Tears brimmed, and I winced at the pain from having

no more eyelashes. I swallowed several times, whipping

my tongue across the sides of my mouth only to

feel no moisture. I was burning, she kept staring, and

passively, I counted the cuts on my skin. Thirteen. Half

my age, though accurately representative of my emotional

maturity and responsiveness in dire situations.

Finally, I gagged, applying pressure to my forehead

with a piece of paper towel I tore without grace. The

girl, weakened by her rickety frame and months unfed,

looked up at me, corners of her lips upturned. The fluid

that flowed from the cats’ chilled slumber rose to our

ankles. Chunks of undigested sausage tossed themselves

out of my aching mouth as my eyes grew wide,

their shades of brown settling into something darker

than black. The coral mug of milk curdles and dried excrement

rolled splashed into the flood. The girl meekly

picked it up, holding it to her crater of a chest while

grinning at me, the blood on her lips peeling away, her

matted hair seeming more kept beneath the glow of

the apartment’s brightest bulb.

I last remember falling, shaking as the cat waste entered

my lungs. After weeks in the hospital, shaking

my head in the negative and refusing to provide explanations

to every question asked, I returned to an emp-

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