A lone house sits in the snow covered land; the surrounding countryside is frozen in silence. Fancy Christmas lights hang loosely from the walls. They match the derelict exterior with broken bulbs and faded lights. The snow is thick and unbroken, save for a single set of large footprints leading to a broken window.
Blood stains the window sill, dried and patchy. On the other side of the window lies cutlery, scattered across the floor – a bloodied hand print marks the kitchen door. Passing through this ransacked room, a strange noise reverberates; a low, rhythmic drone.
The living room has the answer: a cabinet full of antique family heirlooms cautiously sits in the corner. An old man occupies a worn out sofa chair. He is motionless except for the occasional deep breath. The house shudders with the guttural sounds from these breaths. The old man rests oblivious in his red suit and fake white beard. His hands are crusted with blood, his breath full of whisky and his house keys sitting mockingly on a hook opposite him...
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James Tillman is a recent graduate from the University of Chichester with a BA (Hons) degree in English and Creative Writing. Writing interests include poetry, short stories and theatre plays.
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