The baby’s desperate cries could be heard echoing through the building, coming from one of the many rooms. The detective moved along the dark hallway, his weapon drawn. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face. The killer was somewhere in the place with him, behind one of these doors, around the next turn in the corridor.
I was born under the black smoke of September.
His hands shook and his heart slammed against his ribcage. His steps were slow, his legs trembling. He willed that sense of calm to return, that cool head he had worked so hard to cultivate these past days, but the baby’s crying tore through his nerves like a thousand cuts. She was close, he knew she was close, but the wailing echoed through the corridor, past the barren rooms…
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A chilling short story by Michael Piel.
Although the Nonsense Society is filled with spectacular independent artists, musicians, filmmakers, and authors there are several that d…