by Charlotte O’Farrell
All my life, Uncle Harry’s name was spoken with a pitying hush. “He never recovered from his son’s disappearance.”
He lived thirty years after my cousin vanished. Harry was never at family events. Maybe he avoided them, maybe he wasn’t invited at all. People think grief and tragedy are contagious.
He left me his house, surprisingly. I was thrilled. His garden would be perfect for my dog, Fluffy.
The first day there, Fluffy dug for hours.
I called him in at sunset. He emerged from the flower patch with a tibia in his jaws. Degraded, child-sized bones littered the garden.
Charlotte O’Farrell writes horror and all manner of the weird and wonderful. Her work has appeared on the Horror Tree, the Drabble and the Rock N’ Roll Horror Zine, among others. You can find her on Twitter @ChaOFarrell or Facebook AuthorCharlotteOFarrell.