The world ended and the dead climbed out of their graves.
The living hid themselves away to avoid becoming dinner for their dead friends. Sometimes, the doors rattle late at night as the ravenous horrors try to claw their way inside, denying their humanity to sate their hunger.
Through the tiny slit cut into the wall, I can see them. I can see him. His dead eyes still burn for me just as they did when he was alive. For him, a man who couldn’t or wouldn’t take no, my answer remains:
“I’m still not coming over for dinner.”
Sean Harris is a writer from Houston, TX. She is the author of the novel Dead of Winter.