Ask not for whom the mystère hunts

Simon tried to apply pressure to the crude bandage on his ribs without slowing down. Blood was seeping slowly through the cotton and every step brought a fresh knife of agony from the gaping wound.

Thrashing in the trees—they’re still coming. Grinding his molars, he kept moving as quickly as his feet could stumble. A break in the jagged wood ahead revealed a miniature white building, some sort of tiny chapel. A church meant hallowed ground.

Simon grinned and lurched at the chapel, shuffling his way to salvation.

The shadows closed in violently. The brass placard at the door read: “The First Reformed Church of Voodoo Pharmacology.” Deliverance denied and Papa Legba laughed.

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114 words, inspired by this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:

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