·50 words·1 min
Flash Fiction Deadlines For Writers
The gothic mansion was cold, unmodern, and stank of formaldehyde.
Detective Evans was escorted to the Doctor’s candlelit library by a gigantic man whose face was a patchwork of scars.
“The bodies are secured?”
“Yeah, but this is it. I’m done.”
A bulging envelope slid toward Evans.
“I think not.”