LoopBy Janine Milne
SLEEP WAS a series of winding corridors where he caught glimpses of Jemma’s golden hair, turning corners, just out of his reach. The claws of the oak leaves scratched at the windows in the June wind, and Nate woke to find that Jemma no longer lay beside him. The door hinges shrieked and Jemma rushed in, gasping.
“He’s gone.”
That edge of panic in her voice, Nate knew only too well. Her eyes were wide and blue as the shadows brailed her, digging for the bones under her beautiful b***h of a face. Night turned the faded red wallpaper bloody, and the room seemed somehow tighter, like a closing fist. The old house settled on its bones with taps and groans. The lights from the generator were lit, but the room gulped the sick yellow shine into its mould-licked fleur-de-lis.
