I don’t remember that house having a chimney. But does it look rounded, like a head? Or am I overthinking, like he always said I was?
Never really more than a foreboding feeling, something only ever in the furthest corners of my peripheral vision. He always denies me, guides me away from thoughts of strange activity.
And now this photo. Still he dissuades, denies my memories. I look for evidence. Then I remember but say nothing: he said that bunker had been discovered at Number 9. And his escaped brother still hasn’t been found. “He was always good at hiding.”
Written for Friday Fictioneers from the following picture prompt (see here for other stories):
PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook
You've written a full-fledged intriguing mystery here.
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