When The Crooked Man Comes to Call

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The cracked hallway bent at an angle no carpenter would claim, and there, leaning on his crooked cane, stood the Crooked Man. His grin was too wide, his gait too lopsided.

Cratch shuffled up, broom dragging, muttering. “Well, look at you — bent all over and calling it straight.”

The Crooked Man chuckled, a sound like splintering wood. “And look at you — proud of your cracks, polishing imperfection like it’s gold.”

Cratch snorted. “Difference is, I know I’m broken. You? You’re still pretending it’s the way of the world.”

The Crooked Man tilted his head, bones creaking. “Pretending? My mile was crooked, my house was crooked, my life was crooked. That’s no pretense. That’s fate.”

Cratch jabbed his broom into a widening crack in the wall. “Fate, my ass. Crooked is just illusion dressed up fancy. These cracks — they let the truth breathe.”

For a moment the two figures just stared at each other: one warped by the world, the other scraping at its lies. Then both began to laugh — a brittle, chuckling sound that echoed down the broken hall like mischief itself.

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