Whose Still Here

Sonny figured that with a pandemic sweeping the world, he’d lock himself away in his home and do nothing but eat, drink and write. After all, he was a world-renown author and he’d always longed to do exactly that.

But that was over 270 days ago and no one had seen him since. Finally, a friend urged the cops to make a ‘welfare check,’ and after several minutes of knocking, the front door was breached.

They found Sonny sitting in his chair, in front of an unplugged computer. He had a face mask on with another three shoved down his throat.

On the walls of his office, written at least a thousand times in black ink and in a beautiful, cursive penmanship, were the words: “Whose still here…”

Scrawled in a jagged childlike print, using red crayon, was the single answer: “Shush, child. We never left.”


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