Grandmother dies. Mother says: Better late than never. Don’t open the kitchen window.
That night Mother sleeps in Grandmother’s bed. Daughter sleeps in the kitchen as usual.
When dead limbs skitter in the outer dark, Daughter wakes. She opens the window, climbs through, and stumbles—glancing backward every minute—away.
Finola Davidson lives and writes in Durham, North Carolina.
You’ve written a story entirely in declarative sentences, each progressively more confounding, each compelling me to ask, “Wait, what?” I want to know where this house is so I can avoid it! Terrific story!