Page 63 of The Last Morgan
Darkness swallowed her.
Inside the cupboard, the air was thick and wet.
It smelled of old wood, sour sweat, and something else — something rancid and wrong.
The walls seemed to breathe around her.
Lucy pressed her hands to her ears, but it didn’t block out the sounds.
Screams.
Gunfire.
The dream twisted harder.
The cupboard shrank, squeezing her in tighter.
The darkness thickened until it pressed against her skin, smothering her.
She looked down — her hands were smeared with her own filth.
Her legs soaked in urine.
The stench of death seeped through the cracks of the door.
Flies buzzed loudly in the growing heat.
And then she heard them.
The voices. Not her family’s anymore —
something else.
Low, whispering, cruel.
Calling her name.
"Lucy..."
"Come out, Lucy..."
The cupboard door peeled back — not opening — peeling, like skin torn from bone.
Through the gap, she saw their faces.
Twisted.
Rotting.
Her father’s eyes were leaking black tears. Her mother’s mouth stitched shut.
Her brothers were lying crumpled and unmoving in the background.
Lucy screamed.
She jerked awake in bed, the scream tearing from her throat like a wounded animal.
She thrashed against the sheets, fists flailing blindly.
