I realize I’m sweating. And my breathing’s not quite right. None of which is usual for me. I won’t go into details, but The Bad Years put me in the face of every imaginable form of death, my own and others’, and I’m one of the only ones who made it out of that time alive. Charo’s another, but even he had it relatively easy compared to what I got mixed up in. They say Death walks just a few feet to the left of every man. Fuck that. Me and Death are kissing cousins. But right here right now? I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. Besides the obvious things. I guess I’m still not right. Maybe I’ll never be. Or maybe it’s the hairy monsters, whose absence in the basement is somehow even more unnerving to me than their abundance in the kitchen. Or maybe it’s those toys, which have no business being in a place like this. Whatever this is.
I've been reading a bit of Stephen King lately, so am in a pretty great groove of reading horror, and Anyway: Angie by Daniel Jose Older is an awesome example of it in short form. Creepy and compelling with a dynamic female lead, the story unfolds bit by bit upping the tension and the stakes all at once. It's pretty damn good, and really leaves me wanting more.
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