Invisible Traces · A Horror Story No. 30
The Shedding
Alex Moonn
Twenty-three years, Ruth. I'm a patient man.
The night her son is born, the first thing Ruth does is count his fingers. From the window of room 412 she can see the back parking lot, and she can't take her eyes off a Honda parked there. Forty minutes later, someone knocks on the door. Twenty-three years later, on a Tuesday in March, alone in his grandmother's house in Marlow, Pennsylvania, her son turns twenty-three.
English edition, available on Amazon.
Read an excerpt
He came up forty minutes later.
He knocked twice, slowly, with his knuckles, and came in without waiting for an answer. He was wearing the dark coat, buttoned up to the neck, and turning a hospital ID badge over in his fingers: DANIEL ORTIZ, NURSING. The hands were his, white and long. The face wasn't ready yet. The skin moved on his cheeks, slow, looking for its place, and the nose was wider than Silas's and narrowed as I watched. Only the eyes had been his from the start.
English edition, available on Amazon.
