There, at the window, a soulless face presses, pale, bloated, and hungry. My hand itches, wanting to reach for my gun, but I know that won’t do. The noise, the shot, it would bring them all down, all wandering in with gaping, biting mouths.
I march on, but the picture remains, haunting me still as I make camp, as I lie beneath my tent, as I dream, of that face at the window under the shadow of the dead tree. What had been that home, its occupants, the lives cut short, and this revenant, a sexless face, the only remnant?
Tale Told 