“Sweetheart, I just wondered about lunch next weekend. My treat, for my birthday.”
“Sorry, no. We’re too busy. Absolutely frantic,” texted Lilith.
“Never mind. Maybe next time.”
“Maybe.” Lilith added a sad face emoji.
***
Weeks later, Lilith steps into the house. It’s holding its breath, awaiting her. Her eyes adjust to the dim light, and she knows something is terribly wrong.
A foul odour, alien and overwhelming, is wrapping insistent fingers around her throat as she stands.
She sips unsteady breaths and walks upstairs, holding worn banisters in dread-filmed hands.