I follow her into the house.
I grip the axe tightly with both hands.
The door bangs behind me and the cold night air evaporates.
It is claustrophobic and dusty and dark. With each step, old floorboards creak.
I hear the laughter of a small child. It sounds like my Jasmine, dead these last ten years.
A flash of bridal-white dress. A floating veil. I turn and look.
She rushes towards me. I swing the axe.
‘My darling,’ she cries, before the heavy metal blade slices through her jugular.
Blood sprays everywhere.
This time I prey she stays dead.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (more details HERE). The idea is to write a short story of 100 words based on the photo prompt (above).
To read stories of 100 words based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.