crudely formed noose and cast a dark and foreboding shadow against the far wall. Under it a small wooden stool. She walked over and dropped the knife, it clattered, now useless, to the floor, she climbed atop the stool and slipped her slender neck into the coarse, dirty loop of rope. She snugged it, feeling its scratchy caress as if it were tasting her, sampling the feast to come. The stool wobbled ever so slightly. They stood in audience around her, tucked neatly into the shadows, hidden, lingering, a cancer within this dwelling. This home, yes, a home, but only to the dead.
Yes Mr. Meachem, she thought as the stool clattered and the rope tightened, odd things do happen here.
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