Justine pulled into Mr. Hanson’s driveway as the rain fell down in sheets. She retrieved the casserole from the passenger seat and then splashed through puddles to the door. She turned the knob and let herself in.
“Mr. Hanson? I brought your dinner!” A smell of mothballs and Lysol hit Justine like she’d been slapped.
Groaning resounded from above.
She climbed the stairs and peaked into a putrid smelling bedroom.
“Mr. Hanson?” She crossed the room. The bed appeared empty. Leaning over it, she pulled the comforter away from the wall. A cold hand reached up and grabbed her wrist.
Do you think Mr. Hanson had passed away?
Then who grabbed Justine’s wrist?
Photo by S. Lindau