Rats could have moved the bones. They're strong little blighters, especially when they work together, and I've seen enough evidence of them to know that they, at least, have not been driven from here, not while there are gull eggs to eat come spring. Sometimes I wish I had the tenacity of a rat, or at least its untroubled nature, for rats do not fear the future – or the past.
I should not be this disturbed over a dead thing. It's because of this cursed sleeplessness. That's the explanation I cling to. My mind is playing tricks on me, and it was rats that moved those bones, not that cattle bones are something to dwell on.
My mind is playing tricks on me. My mind is playing tricks on me.
It was rats that moved the bones.
YOU ARE READING
The Quiet Sea
HorrorNo one lives on the island anymore. But plagued by a lack of sleep and an unshakable feeling of wrongness, its last visitor begins to question whether they are really alone.
