Earthly Desires

Monica Hasst Part 8

When Monica returned to her room, the wreath on the door froze her in place. It was made entirely of bone, each fragment twisted into shapes that seemed almost familiar—fingers, knuckles, spines. As she stared, one of the bones shot forward like a dart and pricked her hand. She yelped, recoiling, and for a heartbeat, the mistletoe above the door seemed to curl into a cruel, knowing smile.

Then the door swung open. Inside, her room was a riot of twinkling lights, their cheerful glow cutting through the shadows, throwing the grotesque shapes of the wreath across the walls. The contrast made her skin crawl: the warmth of the lights felt wrong, as if the room itself were laughing at her unease.