We stumbled into the weirdest ghost town – every alley, every porch, every old shack is strung up with tin cans and scrap metal, rattlin’ with the breeze like a cursed wind chime. Whoever set it up must’ve been tryin’ to keep the dead away. Now it’s just callin’ them in. There ain’t no way to keep things quiet for long. One wrong move, and the whole town’ll be swarmin’ with the dead. Best be quick before these rattlin’ cans turn into our funeral bells.
The Last Rattle
ByKiwi
