25 Days

by Per Jacobsen

In the past. It's a strong phrase to use for something that doesn't go further back than a few years. It's crazy how so much can change in such a short time.

"What a fucking ghost town," Abby mumbles in the back seat. "Hey, language!" both parents yell in chorus … but after a short pause, Beth leans toward Adam and whispers: "Who the hell taught those little fuckers to talk like that?"

I see. What a great joke. Netflix hasn't called to offer you a stand-up special yet?

If you think you're out in the country now, you just wait. That was the clerk's description of their destination, and when Bill's cabin finally appears at the end of the winding dirt road that has led them up the mountain, in and out through large clusters of snow-covered pines, Adam has to admit that it wasn't an exaggeration.

valley. "Somebody is in there," Abby's voice sounds from the back seat.

something about the woman makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

But it's not oil. It's blood. A viscous, sticky pool of it. Like a drip painting, as abstract as it is macabre. And—he realizes to his horror—the eerie pool of blood next to the car may be the largest, but it's not the only one. In several places on the floor there are smaller puddles. Near one of these, there is also a dark red stain on the wall, roughly eight inches above floor level.

Sometimes, when a chicken is beheaded, the vestibular nerve and some of its motor functions can still remain active. This enables it to run around for a while without a head.

This also applies to her husband. There are times when she'll lie there, staring at him, without feeling anything but a profound, gray emptiness. Not hate, not anger, just emptiness.

(Why do Christmas trees suck at sewing? They keep dropping their needles),