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Schlagwort: weird fiction

Dunwic – Chapter 4

Dunwic – Chapter 4

He woke up in darkness, pure and absolute darkness. His lips were dry, he could feel the cracks, filled with dried blood. He lifted his head. Closed his eyes, opened them again. His shoulders burned, his arms probably were made of stone: no, he could move them. He lifted his hands to his face, felt his features: he was intact. But he was cold. And naked. He could feel the dryness of the place, he was. His back leaned on…

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Dunwic – Chapter 3

Dunwic – Chapter 3

Two days after, John Joe woke up from a basic nightmare. He stared at the window, looked at the moving shadows of the old trees. Rain poured down, at least since yesterday. He tried to hear Dunwic, but couldn’t. The man was silent as a church mouse. And rich like a rich man. John Joe went to the kitchen to make some coffee. While the machine blubbered and steamed the room, he went to the bathroom, put his head in…

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Dunwic – Chapter 2

Dunwic – Chapter 2

Someone knocked at the door. John Joe must had been dozing, because he thought, it was thunder in the sky, but in the end, the long shadow of Mr. Dunwic stood in the door frame. His extremities looked weird, but the marvelous glass work which was set in the main door created that impression. „Mr Dunwic. Come in.“ Dunwic lowered his hat – he wore a hat! -, bowed slightly and smiled pleasantly. „I hope, I don’t disturb your peace.“…

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Dunwic – Chapter 1

Dunwic – Chapter 1

John Joe was a little man – but not in real life. In reality, he was almost 6 foot 5 inches tall, but in the other world, I mean, the other universe, come on … the other reality, he was small. Little. Tiny. The said reality was the financial one. Which meant, his bank account almost didn’t exist. It was empty as a church mouses future. And John Joe hoped for one. A future. Not a church mouse. He had…

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The Heritage

The Heritage

John admired the streets in front of his house. They were beautiful, more beautiful than the ones, he had lived on. Back in the days, when he had been »gone missing«, his main places to stay were the streets – or old buildings near older streets. He loved the cobblestones, their unsteadiness, their glimmer during the twilights. Old lamps threw their orange lights, more or less yellow than a nicotine stained wall, on those stones, echoes of light and sound…

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The House

The House

The house looked at me and I stared back. The windows, lidless and dark, showed no other emotion than pure despise. I did the best I could do. I turned back to the street. The streetlights glowed, nicotine-colored lights surrounded my black shadow like a shield. And yet, they were not able to disconnect me from my fear. And my work. My work was simple: You visit a house, you check out, who is the renter or owner of the…

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