(EIGHT) The Well of the Night Runs Dry

Fantasmagoria

Vernal stood in his old apartment inhaling burnt flesh. It hung on everything, wet and sticky. The plaster reeked of it, like a pungent dumpster, and it coated his tongue in smoke and bitters. It used to make him sick, but just as pig farmers get used to the methane, even miss it when it’s gone, burnt flesh only reminded Vernal of family.

He had entered …