Summer 1947 – A Prayer to the Weaver


Marszalek tossed the desiccated body off the balcony and spun to face me. I raised my hammer. His face, once so open and expressive was now blank, closed and inhuman. A wet whistling hiss issued from his mouth. I took one step forward.

He turned and, all limbs moving, scuttled over the railing. 

In three steps I stood where he had been. I looked down. He was clinging to the wall, already thirty feet away and moving fast.