Fiction Friday: Strangers

Strangers Rory Say “Once I saw her out by Swan Lake,” said Peter Jenkins one hot June afternoon they’d spent prowling the neighborhood. “Saw her bend down and pick up a bunch of worms out of the mud. And guess what?” “What?” “She put ’em up to her mouth and slurped those fuckers up like spaghetti.” “Bullshit.” “I’m serious.” “I heard she sleeps in the old Henderson cemetery,” said Max Flynn. “I heard she doesn’t sleep at all.” Clive Gunderson had never seen the woman do anything terrible, and he…