I’m experimenting with writing drabbles — short-short stories consisting of exactly 100 words — and I’ll be posting one each Monday, at least as long as I keep the experiment up. Here’s the first.
Stepping into his thirteenth haunted house, Herb felt a frisson. He wasn’t superstitious, or he wouldn’t be in this line of work, debunking supernatural claptrap. His assistant’s continual words about his outings — “Third time’s the charm” and “Lucky seven!” — were driving Herb batty. He had finally told Ian to find a new job.
Inside, Ian stood on the second-floor landing. Herb strode up. “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t want another job. This one’s pretty cushy.” He shoved Herb over the railing. “The beauty is, the house gets the blame — the one time you were wrong.”