The door was a leather-wrapped cripple with a colony of miscellaneous bells sprawling from its edge to the wall. I double-checked the address and pressed a random button. Shortly after it warbled inside, the door flung open and a rumpled woman in greasy flower prints gaped at me.
“Doctor Nehms,” I introduced myself, trying to shield my nose from an acrid smell coming out of the apartment.
“Oh yes.” She nodded and forced a crooked smile. “Come in.”
She beckoned me to follow her down an endless gloomy hall, heavily laden with ancient wardrobes, broken chairs, rusty bicycles, bundles of rags and all sorts of clutter placed in a random pattern. I hit my elbow on the edge of an antique chest of drawers; it rattled, and something scurried from beneath my feet. I suppressed a scream.
by ALYA DEMINA
by LEAH MUELLER
by CHRIS DIGIORGIO
As If Hell Were A Real Place
Michael Patrick Welch / McSweeney's
New Orleans / Ryan Thomas / Flickr
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