My study hangs heavy with the lingering fug of pipe smoke.
Oak panelled walls and leather bound tomes reek in its comforting stench.
Low flames splutter in the grate, offering meagre heat to my ink blackened fingers poking palely from frayed gloves, as I scribble and scratch my notes.
Books piled on the desk. No use. I can’t find answers to ease its torment.
Searing pain comes again to my stomach. I don’t have long.
A shifting sigh. In the corner, the dark, stocky figure with it’s flowing shroud watches and waits. Silently. Menacingly. Hopefully.
I go back to work.
So, this story was inspired by the urban legend about “The Suff” that started with a very strange tale from Jeff Kinnard , swept through Substack and inspired wonderful writers like Leigh Parrish , The Chronicler , Josh Tatter , Scoot, John Coon , The Casual Writer, Blinking Blue Line, Michael S. Atkinson and Jon T with many more that I’m sure I’ve missed, to get involved. It’s another great example of the community coming together to create something magical. However, thanks to John for prompting me to give this a go with 100 words. I tried my best!
Great addition to The Suff!
I've come back to heart this again🖤