This morose procession ends in a massive, lightless cavern, in which the disfigured persons are forced through an arcane and painful transformation ritual that results in the addition of several new limbs, all twitching and bleached white as deep sea fish that have never seen the sun. Then, the procession attendants serve coffee and yam pie.
Arturo’s body was never found, and that was all well and good because after getting chased around by that chainsaw-wielding maniac, he could have really used a break.
And the neighbors glared at you, of course, because they think it’s your fault.
She wandered for what seemed like forever, picking through the racks of skull skulptures and skull wine holders, skull key chains, skull mandolins, skull chaise lounges, skull guillotines, skull pendulums, skull jack-in-the-boxes.
Our room was bitter cold and no manner of warmth from the fireplace could chase away the chill, so snuggling deep into the pillows on the antique canopy bed was just the ticket. The moaning from the hallways really helped my husband get to sleep in the absence of his white noise generator.
Overall, the body count was very low.
Mom lifted her arms and all the cutlery leapt from the drawers. A few stray forks impaled the zucchini she’d been slicing before the ruckus began.