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Nearly Christmas Day. Outside Appleyard Cottage, snow falls, sculpting the fields, and its bitterly cold.
Not that the dead care. In the tiny cottage, a set of bodies. A family, at various angles. Some lie more natural than others. Atop the pile, the mother. Her husband is below her. His arm made it between the wooden beams far enough to clasp her hand before she died.
She shouldn’t have died. Neither of them should ever have died.
Their son lies lifeless at the door. His broken hand covers his face, smelling of the thing that has killed them all.
That thing is still with them. Interleaved between husband and wife. Its body forms a crazy set of twists. Face down, its nose rests in the cleft between the father’s arm and shoulder.
Legs ensnared within arms within faces.
This is how they will be found.
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