The night was chillier than he’d expected—it was every year. The moon shone bright, almost as bright as the need burned in him. He cracked his knuckles as he waited.
The smell came first, it always did. He breathed in. The thick odour of putrid rot made his cock stiffen.
“Back for more, I see.” The raspy voice was as he remembered it. He knew a laugh would follow, but it didn’t stop him from unbuttoning his trousers. One day a year was all he got. The smell of death lasted longer—it would cling to him for days.
[bctt tweet=”I just read this horrific drabble”]