Sunday, May 8, 2016

The Mailbox of Doom and other Tales of Terror

Reaching sleepily into the box, his fingers found, instead of the usual advertising circulars, a cold and slimy suckered tentacle. It grasped his wrist and pulled. He braced his other hand on the box's rim and his knee on the post, but no. He was drawn irresistibly through the small plastic maw and plunged, as if into an unsuspected ocean, into a kaleidoscope of unimaginable supracosmic horror. He saw those that dwelt therein, and they saw him. He was touched where touch is scarcely welcome. He was divested of that which he desired most ardently to keep. Scattered, he drifted further into an abyss that had no end. On Earth, one of his slippers in the gutter, the cat peering cautiously out of the open front door, the tea kettle calling out in vain, his phone abuzz on the table.

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