Member-only story
Old fashioned tick-tock, distant like a train heard across a fog-wound city, now footsteps that tick-tock across cobblestones, in darkness and mist. They are closing and she cannot run, the stone and mortar fixing her feet in place, the yellow light haloed in droplets visible to the eye. If she doesn’t move, run, scream, it will be her end but the weight is unbearable, and she can’t even lift her arms.
On the heavy air a new odor, as yellow as the light, as old as the world. Time is running out, tick-tock, the footsteps, the fog, the weight drawing up around her and swallowing her whole. Hell beckons and will not take no for an answer, the booming chime of the hour, not footfalls but hands ticking into position, a cry as light fills the world but her eyes remain closed.
