He didn’t like to be manipulated—he was independent, if a bit scattered: the piles of newspapers in his apartment organized; the clean cat food tins destined for the recycling bin; the ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts.
To his friends he was an eccentric—quick to anger, always with a smoke in his hand, but a man that would give you the shirt off his back.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve seen things on the periphery of my vision—motes floating in the shadows, flashes of film, elongated figures nodding in agreement. #ScaryStories#horror#rt@gothamghosts
On the day I saw my doppleganger turn the corner into an alley, the edge of my vision had been shaky.
This was a day that started with snow and piercing cold, no number of layers enough to keep the Chicago winter away, my flesh numb, the cogs in my head slow to turn.
Standing in front of the mirror that my Great Aunt Dahlia gave me, the candlelight sparkles in a dingy halo, swimming in the darkness, as I rub my fingertips together. #ScaryStories#horror#rt @gothamghostwriters
I miss her—she was a beacon of light, that woman, in an otherwise gloomy existence, and I can’t let her go without a fight.
I whisper an incantation under my breath, my voice slowly growing louder, as bitter herbs burn in an iron bowl, an arrangement of flowers in purple, red, and yellow.