On the Grounds of the Evil Eye
Commotion in the garden beyond the dining room window caused Marshall to look up from his breakfast. When he did, the skinny, male photographer with spiked black hair froze. The youth’s eyes widened with shock and horror.
Their gazes locked.
Marshall quaked with rage. Damn them!
His good eye twitched and the fire-melted flesh along the right side of his ruined face began to itch. He stretched a stiff finger on his clawed good hand toward the window, certain the paparazzi weasel had snapped his photo. A phrase of mumbled Latin escaped his lips.
Marshall’s wrath flowed outward.
Outside, the youth dropped his camera. He flinched and screamed. His exposed flesh blistered, blackened and split. Charred completely, he exploded as ash.
