It's finger nails dug into the door, a rhythm of scratching, it's soft flesh was probably tearing away, wood splinters digging in towards the bone. I hold my breathe on instinct, quietly shuffling away from the door, hoping, praying that the thing on the other side of the door would lose interest. Sooner rather than later.
YOU ARE READING
My book of horror stories
Short Story❝𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔❞ Currently rewriting
