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The Stench Of Fear

I cowered in my hiding spot.

“You can run, but you can’t hide. I can smell your fear, boy.”

Maybe the witch wasn’t lying about my fear having a scent. Maybe she really could smell me. Either way, I could definitely smell the stench of approaching dread all the way up here in my hiding place—the attic, where it was virtually impossible for her to find me.

“You can’t escape from me, boy. I will find you, and you’ll be sorry.”

I tried to remain as still as I could. The witch would just not stop chasing me. She had snuck up on me while I was playing in the garden. She had tried to catch me by surprise and pin me down. However, I managed to slip between her feet, and run into the house. The witch did not stop and continued chasing me indoors. I darted around trying to shake her off, but to no avail. She was like a hungry wolf that had caught the scent of fresh blood. When I’d finally managed to put some distance between us by toppling a chair into her path, I’d rushed up to the attic. I could only hope that she wouldn’t come here. If she found me, she would empty the dreaded contents of her glass of doom down my throat. I shuddered at the thought of the white liquid she was carrying. I hugged my knees to my chest, noticing the sudden outbreak of goose bumps on my skin.

The odor of the horrid liquid was growing stronger by the second. The fumes were like poison, slowly choking the life out of me. I heard the floorboards creak under her weight. She was climbing up! Before I could understand what was happening, she was already here. The attic reeked of the dreadful stench. Realizing that I had nowhere left to run, I held my breath and risked a quick peek out of my hiding spot. There she was! Her glaring dark eyes were staring right at me. She smiled an evil grin, flashing the yellow in her teeth.

“Game’s over. Come on out.”

I gulped as I stepped out of my hiding place, trembling. The towering witch continued glaring at me. She extended her hairy arm and caught me by my ear. Trapped in her vice like grip, I could only stare at the glass in her hand, the stench of dread wafting in the air around me. I pinched my nose in a final act of defiance.

“You little rascal! Why do you have to this every time?”

I feigned puking at her suggestion. “I hate how it looks. I hate how it tastes. And most of all, I hate how it smells. I just hate milk, Mom.”

Recommended1 Simily SnapPublished in Fiction, Flash Fiction, Horror, Humor

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