Armelle Lajus

“Ouch!” A tiny bubble of blood was already forming on the tip of her finger where the holly pricked her skin.
“I'll get you a plaster.”
“No need, it’s nothing.”
She stared at the unfinished wreath on the table and put her finger against her teeth.
Christmas would never be the same again.
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Lisa’s stomach knotted as she entered the attic, the air sour with mildew. The low ceiling loomed, the bulb buzzing as dust hung in the shadows. Splintered wood pricked her fingers and the floor creaked like a growl. The attic wasn’t just a space, it was a grudge, daring her to linger.
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