Darren ambled along the driveway toward the old, run-down farmhouse. From the branches of a nearby tree, chains dangled, meat hooks at the end clinking in the breeze.
“What odd wind chimes,” Darren mused. Then, eyeing the dark splotches staining the ground underneath, “I wonder what spilled.”
The front door opened and out stepped a man holding a chainsaw, wearing an old-fashioned hockey mask and an apron splattered with what looked like red paint. An artist of some sort, Darren figured.
“Hullo.” Darren smiled. “My car ran out of gas. Could I use your phone?”
The man revved his chainsaw.
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alt="Stone Jaws by Evan Baughfman"
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>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Mannequin People by Michael J. Stiehl"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Gator by Randall Andrews"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Rude Awakening by Richard Lau"
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>