Missy wondered why the apartment had been on the market for almost a year. Other than the interior design, the one-bedroom was perfect. She turned up her nose at the thin shreds of pink, translucent fabric hanging on the wall. She didn't recognize the material, but it reminded her of dried skin. Perhaps deer?
In the kitchen, she ran her index finger across the dingy off-white top of the kitchen island. She sneered.
The landlord stood across from her, his hands behind his back, observing Missy's every move and expression intently. "You don't have to keep it if you don't want it," he said.
Missy tapped it with her knuckle. The sound it made was . . . peculiar. "What's this made out of?"
The landlord grinned, exposing teeth as sharp as knives. "It's made out of human bones." He leaped across the kitchen island; his body a blur of movement, his clawed hands grasping at Missy's neck.
Words = Life
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