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Flinders' Flit

by H.L. Fullerton

About the Author: H. L. Fullerton writes fiction—mostly speculative, occasionally about haunted memories—which can be found in more than 50 anthologies and magazines including Fireweed: Stories of the Revolution and Translunar Travelers Lounge, and also has a somewhat haunted novella out: The Boy Who Was Mistaken for a Fairy King. On Twitter as @ByHLFullerton


You might think it strange—the police certainly did—that when I found the house torn apart and my husband missing, I didn’t immediately dial 9-1-1. Most people upon discovering their front door not quite shut, seeing drawers upended, tables overturned, hall closet ransacked, its door drooping off its track, books and belongings scattered to the four corners would’ve thought burglars and whipped out their cell; maybe retreated to their car and waited for flashing lights and uniforms better equipped to deal with the mess their life had just become.

But I knew what an emptied house felt like.

I’d been left before. I shut and locked the door behind me. A glance left into the living room, a peek right towards the dining table, and I headed straight into the kitchen where whisks and silverware crunched like lost diamonds under foot. The novelty golf salt-n-pepper cellars I disliked were gone. Knives were missing. I opened the fridge and that too had been raided. No bottles of micro-brewed ale, no fiery-hot steak sauce, no onion dip. Only my things remained.

I pulled out a diet soda and wondered if I’d be able to keep it together when I went upstairs and saw the state of our bedroom. Just imagining empty dresser drawers stacked like lopsided stairs, the tangled hangers and vacated shoe tree, the denuded bathroom shelves left me screaming and throwing my slightly-sipped pop across the room. The can bounced on the granite counter and smacked against the far wall, cola splattering everywhere.

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