A Thorn to Wake the Dead
A flash fiction (1000 words or less) fractured faiytale submitted to the Fractured Lit competition A Thorn to Wake the Dead “Hello?” My quivering voice seemed too loud even in that grand foyer, echoing around the cascading chandelier and curling between every finely carved detail on the walls and ceilings. Who speaks? A shiver pricked at the nape of my neck. Had I imagined that voice, or had someone spoken? “I am looking for my father.” He is not here. The spidery voice beckoned me as though it had entrapped me in gossamer threads, reeling me towards the marble staircase. “Where is my father?” I demanded, mustering any courage that hadn’t fled upon first heaving open the doors to the mansion. Not here. I climbed the dark stairs, brushing away shadows that tried to ensnare me with long, cold fingers. With every step, a rhythmic ticking sound grew louder and louder: it was a grandfather clock, looming over the hallway, glowering and urging me to go faster with every tick – go, go, g...

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