Wind ruffled across hay bales, carrying the earthy scent through open farmhouse windows. No snores drifted back, no sounds of sleeping residents. When the police inevitably arrived, they wouldn't find bodies. They would find bloody pieces. Not enough to form a full human, though the house once held a family of five.
They wouldn't find footprints, only odd gouges in the polished wooden floors, streaked with crimson.
They wouldn't find fingerprints, nor fingers with prints.
The house itself smelled like the barn, ripe with musk and rage.
Freedom came on cloven hooves that night. And pigs eat every tasty bone.
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alt="Phantom by Liam Dragan"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Neuroluxe Implant no 3Z82M99B64 by Bryanna Botham"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Blindly Following Orders by Chris Tattersall"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Donor by Collette Night"
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>