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The Curing House
🕑 Added 2019-01-22 01:27:28 +0000 UTCCalm down. She put her hand on the latch and closed her eyes, gulping sour air. Clean it. Just clean it. How bad could it be?
Joan opened the door. A thick, ripe reek that brought her gorge at once into her mouth boiled out from the gloom within. Flies rose like a living carpet from the bloody workbench and the packed dirt floor. They beat against her. They crawled over her skin and worried through her hair. Don’t scream, she thought as she squeezed her eyes shut and clapped her hands over her mouth and nose. If you scream they’ll get inside you.
The whining, horrible buzz of their flight chewed at her ears. Their fat bodies pulsed against her skin. Closer than a lover. The hands of the swarm caressed her with repulsive eagerness. She staggered back into the yard, reeling in darkness. Seething fingers trying to push between her own, to reach the warmth and wetness of her mouth. A hideous whine rose through the din as several found her ear and crawled about its scalloped ridges.
She fumbled for the door and found it, keeping one hand pressed tight over her mouth and nostrils. With a whimper she shoved her weight against it, its corner catching on pebbles and ridges of hard earth, heaving until it slammed shut. They’ll crawl through the cracks, she thought, eyes still squeezed tightly shut against the heartbeat of the swarm. She slid down the door, not feeling the splinters that stabbed her palms.
The wind came up and swept away some small part of the cloud. She could feel them clinging to her skin, her clothes, her hair. Desperate to remain.
