Invisible Traces · A Horror Story No. 21
HONK
Alex Moonn
Everyone has one thing they can't stop doing.
Harlan Creek, Oregon. Two hundred and forty-six residents. It was two hundred and fifty-two before 2012. Buddy watches the street from his window and has gone fourteen months without opening the trunk. Then, on a Friday in October, a Civic drives by too slowly and a wooden bat comes down on the blue mailbox he spent two weekends painting. What Buddy feels when he opens the trunk is relief.
English edition, available on Amazon.
Read an excerpt
The costume was folded the way I always fold it — jumpsuit first, wig on top, nose last. The inside of the trunk smells like mothballs and something else, and I know where the second layer comes from.
I took out the wig. Shook it. The orange fibers spread slowly in the bedroom air. I looked at them and felt pleasure. Simple pleasure, like someone about to do something they’re good at.
English edition, available on Amazon.
