Uncommonly bad day III

Trains, bags and heavy breathing. Not too mention a good dose of Foggartty’s moonshine last night.

The only bag I knew of, besides the scrunched up suitcase I use on my all too frequent flights from unpaid rent, was the one Rich had. It was an old carpet bagger that came attached with his wild story of alien abduction and end of the world scenarios. Much like the crazy imagination he had as a kid, only less believable now we were adults.

Less believable to us anyway.

Still, I hobbled one-legged to the rickety attic stairs. Rich had sounded concerned enough for me to wonder if it really did contain something he needed. He hadn’t sounded well at all.

I paused for a moment at the attic door, wondering if I’d heard a hum from the room or not. A hum, yeah, right. Foggartty’s moonshine strikes again.

Opening the door I stepped in, halting in the glowing blue, mystical light that now emerged from the open bag.

I had heard a humming noise. The hum of a dozen silver ferrets worshipping—the bag.

This story has no comments.