One Will Get You
“Harold, would you get the laundry for me?” Phyliss’ voice kept it’s screeching quality as it carried into the living room from the kitchen.
He flinched at the sound. He thought he’d be used to it after thirty years. “A-okay, honey.” He turned the TV off and headed out the side door.
He paused, watching the sheets dance on the washline. “Damn wind,” he muttered, grabbing the folded laundry basket by the door.
Movement flashed at his side, causing him to step back, trip, and fall. Their hound stood wagging its tail.
“Too many horror movies, buddy. Way too many.”