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Dancing #56



I wanted to run into that tavern, tear my friend from the clutch of his decaying partner, pull him out into the night and away from danger. But as he spun around I witnessed the cadaver's fingers pierce his back and blood spurt out in crimson arcs; and as he turned again I saw the smile still fixed to his face and his eyes white and huge, the pupils retreated into his head in devilish ecstasy.
There was the faintest touch against my back, a skeletal finger perhaps, a reaching grip that failed.
And I ran.

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