Poor Dead Spictor Greene

Across the empty space to which Harold stood from Manning, splayed the red, splattered silhouette of Spictor Greene. Every creaking, grunge spattered crack of the old, worn floorboards glowed crimson, filled with the dried remains of Spictor’s blood and pieces. The eerie, smeared portrait of a man’s last breath put Harold in a tizzy, and he fidgeted and scratched at the back of his neck, so much desiring to book it on out, and he stood a twitchy wreck, gnawing his fingernails and shifting weight upon his feet back and forth and back and forth, eyes searching to lay anywhere but on that gruesome, grotesque splot of death.

But Manning stood stone, said nothing, and mulled mutely over Spictor’s left parts like a professor at his desk, going over the late night papers. The entirety of the room was swathed in natural, deathly quiet, but Harold longed for the sudden pop of the settling building or for the flap of pigeons flitting about rafters. How empty, how shakingly empty this place was. Large and domed, and silenced, with the light slipping in through the rickety boards upon the windows louder than his breathing; the dust that floated was the loudest thing he could currently witness.

He shuddered. Then jumped with a squawk at Manning’s voice.

“Spictor was always the – ”

“WAH!” Harold leaped, quickly turning away from his thought back to Manning, who stood frozen in mid flash of his match as he looked to Harold, annoyed like. “St’sorry,” stuttered Harold, “I guess I’ve g-got the jitters.”

Manning looked nonchalantly at Harold, then raised his brow and gave a nod and lit up, the cigarette quickly smoldering in orange illumination, as he puffed out a huge whiff of grey and growled, “What the fuck was Spictor doing here? Damn idiot.”

There was no question, of course, as both he and Harold knew what Spictor had been doing. However, who was going to be the first to reveal this knowing, now that was the mystery.

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