Till Our Fingers Decompose Novels & Stories

He opened his arms, his hands, with the fingers that were too long, opening and flexing like greedy paws. Somewhere behind the walls, the dead woke, responding to the silent tune of Peabody the ghoulish Pied Piper. Beneath her feet, under the boards, the dead stretched. And above her, somewhere, she could hear the quiet dead reach to find and grip and hold. Peabody’s fingers grew longer, the arms grew longer. From where he stood, this Peabody’s reach seemed inescapable, spanning wall to wall, the fingers much too long, the palms larger than her biggest serving platter or frying pan.

I lifted the metal baseball bat higher, feeling much better with a heavy weapon in my hands. They twisted nervously around the rubber grip, and I stepped silently from behind the building, careful to avoid stepping on anything that will make noise and give away my position. He's shuffling along a few yards ahead of me, right in front of the alley I needed to get to. His left arm is dislocated, and it's hanging at his side. His ankle is broken; the skin is tattered and bloody, and the bone is poking out. He's walking on it anyway, oblivious to any pain he might be in. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that three of the fingers on his right hand are missing, probably bitten off. His skin looks

𝙈𝙖𝙮𝙗𝙚, 𝙣𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 � ��𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙙𝙤 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙩. – 𝘾𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙧𝙖 𝘾𝙡𝙖𝙧𝙚, 𝘾𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙁𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙣 𝘼𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡𝙨 (𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙈𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙄𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨, #4)

Sara’s head was bandaged above her left ear with the hair shaved down, showing mute testimony of having needed many stitches at the very least. Sara’s left arm was in a cast from her hand to her elbow, the brutally discolored fingers poking out feebly from the plaster. A bandage covered her left cheek where it had had to be stitched closed. Johnny could see the edges of a soft cast which wrapped around Sara's left side, through the opening in her hospital gown, obviously to support and protect broken ribs. And Sara’s right arm was wrapped in gauze covering some other, unknown wound.

I cried out, “p-please…” As soon as the words left my mouth, he dipped his fingers inside me, starting with a torturously slow pace. I shifted my hips faster, like a plea for him to quicken his pace but it only seemed to entertain him. I took his lips in my mouth while his fingers were still in me, trying to will everything I was feeling into his mouth. Dean let out a low growl as he captured my mouth, his veracious affection stealing my breath. A violent moan rumbled through me as he increased the pace of his fingers, letting them work in and out of me. The tautness in my belly grew even tighter, building with his momentum until I was delirious with need.

Those simple sentences kept echoing in Emmett's mind. All at once, it felt like he had been cursed. Those words echoed in his mind so much that a sharp pain spread across his forehead. The immense pain left him devoid of any strength. With a loud thud, his phone fell and slammed onto the table. Unfortunately, Emmett had tied the candlesticks with thin threads to ensure an even distance between each. One candlestick fell, pulling on the threads and causing the others to fall over, too. Hot flames spread onto the dead leaves and feathers on the ground. It then traveled toward the wooden dominoes.

I added sullenly. “We have to be optimistic, Alexa, please,” Noelle said. Then she held my hand in hers and squeezed gently. “Alright, I will try, but this elevator needs to freaking go faster,” I said. “This is the fastest it can go,” Noelle told me. It was something I already knew, but right now, I just wasn’t working on anything that I knew.

Legs spasming. And then—stillness. I watched. The bubbling continued, the acid gnawing at their flesh, stripping away the final remnants of their humanity, leaving only bone and ruin. It was poetic. I sighed, taking another slow drag from my cigar. The corpses would be nothing more than a grim, dissolving memory in a few weeks. The lye would do its work, breaking them down until there was nothing left—no evidence, no lingering scent of decay. Just a slow fade into nothingness, as if they had never existed.

Oh my Gоd, I wonder іf I’m going tо get my fingers сhорреd off? I ѕіt bасk down with a thumр, the сhаіr ѕсооtіng bасk оn its whееlѕ аnd hіttіng thе dеѕk bеhіnd mе. I hаvе tо calm dоwn. Nо оnе іѕ going tо lose аnу fіngеrѕ. Thіѕ іѕ rеаl life. It’ѕ probably juѕt аn аutоmаtіс locking dооr. God I’m ѕuсh a drama queen.

Around us, the others did the same — some apologizing, some crying as they hit strangers. The air was full of gasps and muffled sobs. “Good, good!” the voice sang. “Now… Simon says break your own finger.” My breath caught. What… did he just say?