not the rot of a corpse, but the wet earth of a graveyard, must and damp for all that it's bone dry.
the hatch snaps shut, cutting off any sunlight. and that's when the hands start. nothing will appear to change, but the distinct feeling of weak fingers trying, and failing, to grip at their ankles, at their legs, at their clothes, starts in the dark. there must be dozens of them.]
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not the rot of a corpse, but the wet earth of a graveyard, must and damp for all that it's bone dry.
the hatch snaps shut, cutting off any sunlight. and that's when the hands start. nothing will appear to change, but the distinct feeling of weak fingers trying, and failing, to grip at their ankles, at their legs, at their clothes, starts in the dark. there must be dozens of them.]