Byron lifted his shirt, bent forward under the kitchen light, revealed three lines of raw, inflamed skin on his back.
“Who scratched you?” Shannon asked.
“Not who. What.” Byron tucked his shirt into his faded denim jeans, winced as the fabric grazed his wounds.
“But we were only gone a minute. Are you sure you didn’t—” Harold started.
“I know what I saw.”
“You saw a shadow,” Shannon said.
“An animal?” Harold said.
The cabinet behind them swung open. A glass salt shaker flew from the shelf and shattered on the floor.
“I think it followed us.”
word count: 100
Today is Veteran’s Day, but alas, I decided to go in a different direction with this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt (courtesy of J Hardy Carroll). I like to do the opposite of what’s expected of me. Besides, this Friday is Friday the 13th! 😉