A fire roars in the wood stove and the teapot whistles. Outside, twigs snap and dry leaves crumble under their approaching feet. They are close. My boat waits on the river.
I empty my cup of mint tea. It was her favorite.
Tied at the wrist to the bedpost, she writhes against her restraints and snaps her teeth. The songs of the dead sound as screeches of an owl. I am loath to leave, but I must. She belongs to them now. I will live on the water. The dry ground belongs to the Walkers of the night.
This story is my contribution to “Friday Fictioneers,” a weekly challenge hosted by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff Fields. With the help of a photo prompt to inspire, we are to write a 100-word story. This week’s photo was contributed by Valerie J. Barrett. If you would like to join in with this encouraging group of writers or read their stories from this week, click HERE.