Then another.
The ceiling panel above him bowed inward. Once. Twice. A thin crack spiderwebbed across the white plastic. A single drop of dark, viscous fluid—not water, not oil—fell onto Arthur’s shoulder. He didn’t wipe it away. He just started to cry. suspense digest june 2019 part 2
She took a breath.
He was tall, with the forgotten-collar of a man who’d once been fastidious. His name, according to the ticket clipped above his head, was Arthur. Arthur hadn’t spoken since New Haven. He just stared out the window, watching his own ghost reflect back at him. Then another
By J. H. Merrow
Eleanor looked at the dead woman in 6D. The twisted man in 6B. The silent, weeping souls filling the car behind her, all trapped in the moment of impact, looped forever. He didn’t wipe it away
The ceiling gave a great, groaning shudder. The lights went out.