By Richard Warren.
Read by JC Hutchins.
And Myrriden watched, perched on the dresser. Jack saw him through the corner of his eye. A tall man, tall like Daddy, but his legs and arms weren’t right–long and thin, they reminded Jack of spiders.
Myrriden held a flute to his lips. White, bone white. A leg bone, Jack knew that. Little Boy Leg Bone. The soft music sounded like wind through dry leaves and the distant cry of dogs. It made Jack’s shins ache.