a zombiefied short story
by Ann Swann
He was curled up like a comma in a pile of old feed sacks.
The year was 1974 and I was in the eighth grade. I was in a hurry, running late as usual, and I had just opened the hen house to let my flock out for the day when I looked across the packed-earth yard and noticed the toolshed door wasn’t completely closed. Since I was the one responsible for shutting things up in the evening, I knew that door was closed and latched the night before.
I tiptoed up and tried to see inside through the crack—had my eye pressed to it just like that Tell-Tale Heart guy we’d read about in English—but I couldn’t see anything except that pile of old sacks.
Then they moved.
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