Sara McClayton | Unnamed

The hands of the unseen world are warm. I still feel them, sometimes, on the back of my neck. As a child, the hands would soothe. Grown, I sense the hands before they touch. A quivering from neck to spine. Then nausea with the press of fingers. I used to long to blur the edges, to close the space between our skin. Now I feel the dread of the unnamed.

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