What I.F.? Ghost and Mr. Chicken
The old haunted house on the edge of town creaked under the October wind, cobwebs dangling like lace from the rafters. Moonlight spilled through cracked windows, painting silver streaks across the dusty floorboards. That was the only light when the front door banged open and Alma staggered forward, clutching a half-empty mason jar of moonshine and bottle of beer. “Luzzer, (hic) whad arr yoo doin’ here?” she slurred, voice thick and syrupy. Each hiccup jolted her forward, and the flimsy purple mini dress (two sizes too small and fighting for its life) slipped apart. Her heavy breasts swayed with every unsteady step, dark brown areolas peeking farther over the neckline, fat nipples already stiff from the chilly air and the burn of liquor in her blood. No bra. No panties. Just that reckless little dress and a purple satin headband keeping her shoulder-length brown hair from her flushed face. Luther stood frozen near the staircase, flashlight forgotten in his hand. “A…Alma?! I-isThe ...
