She just stood there. Watching her.
The door handle was hot enough to melt her skin. Her right hand useless. Her left hand wrapped in a t-shirt. Better luck this time.
Almost blinded by smoke, she could still see her. She ran down the stairs, the heat singeing her hair. Her tear ducts couldn’t function. Her eyes were dry. She reached the front door.
She stood watching from the top of the stairs.
She was outside, coughing, lungs filled with smoke. She felt dizzy. There she was. Standing over her.
In lieu of Hydra story because they’ll be Monday to Friday this coming week, a Sunday afternoon horror story.