back and hunt that horror until it screamed no more.
But that day lay ahead, in front of him, and he needed to run to it. Damp grass and earth beneath his feet, the lights of the house growing closer. Forty yards. Thirty-five. Thirty.
"Don't think; just run," Brian had said.
A squeal from behind him, a clattering. A sidelong glance revealed that clattering shape, those three legs leaping across the grass. A face spattered and wet, a maw and a hundred teeth stained crimson. Eyes, a dozen cruel pebbles fixated on him.
It had finished off Freddie and now it was coming for him.
Twenty yards.
Fifteen.
The light through the French doors of the kitchen glimmered across damp grass and slate rock. The back patio. Dew clung to the redwood banister.
Running, faster.
Ten yards.
Tick-tick-tick , came the noise right behind him.
Seven yards.
He leapt up the steps, stumbled, and spilled across the deck. A backward glance revealed the tattered horror in mid-stride, that arm swinging like an awful phallus as it ran. A garden lamp snapped beneath its cloven foot.
Scrambling to his feet, up the steps. Faster. Reaching out...
He threw open the kitchen door, crashed in, and slammed it shut.
"Dad! Julie!" he screamed. "Dad, please help!"
And then Mister Skitters was there. The door buckled, shook, and then shattered. Wood and glass bounced across the floor as the monster crashed through.
Aiden circled around the table, a ten foot space between himself and the creature. Its legs slipped and slid on the hardwood floor, hooves fighting for traction. Then it found its footing and rose.
Over the years, light had always tamed Aiden's nighttime terrors. Scorpions or scaled horrors had been bred among the shadows, much as they often were by those with an active imagination. Yet the warm glow of a lamp or an overhead light had always turned them back to piles of clothes or jackets swaying from hangers. Light had always purged, purified, cast out evil.
But no longer.
Bathed in the glow of the kitchen light, the thing that clattered and rose to its feet was nothing like Aiden had ever imagined. It was construction of flesh and fur, warped skin and scales and a dozen mismatched parts growing out of each other. Tattered rags held soft skin and supple organs in like a dozen tourniquets. Three weak legs held up a tumor-lined body, a squat grotesquery of a thing with an ever-gnashing maw.
Funny, he thought. Funny that such a terrible thing should seem both fragile and fearsome. Funny that such a nightmare could even exist here, in this world.
Then it shrieked and lashed out that horrible arm and all his thoughts went to putting as much distance between himself and the terror as he could.
A second lash, the arm swung out, and a vase exploded to the right of his head. Freddie turned and ran backward into the hallway as a third strike tore a gash in the wall. Pictures flashed past. Empty frames and white photographs, pictures that had once shown a family. Then he came out into the entry way, shouting: “Dad! Dad! Julie!”
His words echoed off white walls, white stairs, and a white door. The entryway had been painted, a bleached bone color. Every single square inch.
“What the heck?” he asked, taking in the enigma before him. The entrance to the house was utterly and completely empty of detail. Only a sea of white...
No, not painted, he realized. It had been erased. Scrubbed clean of pictures and color, scrubbed clear of every detail.
And then the thing was crashing, squeezing down the hall, coming for him. Plaster tore and pictures cracked.
Aiden threw open the front door, hoping to find a car, something to put more distance between himself and that clattering, chattering horror. The front yard was a void, a sea of white beneath ashen clouds. There was no gate, no fence, no mountains or trees. There was only a vast white world scrubbed of color that receded into a thousand miles of emptiness.
Erased, all of it. He had only a moment
But that day lay ahead, in front of him, and he needed to run to it. Damp grass and earth beneath his feet, the lights of the house growing closer. Forty yards. Thirty-five. Thirty.
"Don't think; just run," Brian had said.
A squeal from behind him, a clattering. A sidelong glance revealed that clattering shape, those three legs leaping across the grass. A face spattered and wet, a maw and a hundred teeth stained crimson. Eyes, a dozen cruel pebbles fixated on him.
It had finished off Freddie and now it was coming for him.
Twenty yards.
Fifteen.
The light through the French doors of the kitchen glimmered across damp grass and slate rock. The back patio. Dew clung to the redwood banister.
Running, faster.
Ten yards.
Tick-tick-tick , came the noise right behind him.
Seven yards.
He leapt up the steps, stumbled, and spilled across the deck. A backward glance revealed the tattered horror in mid-stride, that arm swinging like an awful phallus as it ran. A garden lamp snapped beneath its cloven foot.
Scrambling to his feet, up the steps. Faster. Reaching out...
He threw open the kitchen door, crashed in, and slammed it shut.
"Dad! Julie!" he screamed. "Dad, please help!"
And then Mister Skitters was there. The door buckled, shook, and then shattered. Wood and glass bounced across the floor as the monster crashed through.
Aiden circled around the table, a ten foot space between himself and the creature. Its legs slipped and slid on the hardwood floor, hooves fighting for traction. Then it found its footing and rose.
Over the years, light had always tamed Aiden's nighttime terrors. Scorpions or scaled horrors had been bred among the shadows, much as they often were by those with an active imagination. Yet the warm glow of a lamp or an overhead light had always turned them back to piles of clothes or jackets swaying from hangers. Light had always purged, purified, cast out evil.
But no longer.
Bathed in the glow of the kitchen light, the thing that clattered and rose to its feet was nothing like Aiden had ever imagined. It was construction of flesh and fur, warped skin and scales and a dozen mismatched parts growing out of each other. Tattered rags held soft skin and supple organs in like a dozen tourniquets. Three weak legs held up a tumor-lined body, a squat grotesquery of a thing with an ever-gnashing maw.
Funny, he thought. Funny that such a terrible thing should seem both fragile and fearsome. Funny that such a nightmare could even exist here, in this world.
Then it shrieked and lashed out that horrible arm and all his thoughts went to putting as much distance between himself and the terror as he could.
A second lash, the arm swung out, and a vase exploded to the right of his head. Freddie turned and ran backward into the hallway as a third strike tore a gash in the wall. Pictures flashed past. Empty frames and white photographs, pictures that had once shown a family. Then he came out into the entry way, shouting: “Dad! Dad! Julie!”
His words echoed off white walls, white stairs, and a white door. The entryway had been painted, a bleached bone color. Every single square inch.
“What the heck?” he asked, taking in the enigma before him. The entrance to the house was utterly and completely empty of detail. Only a sea of white...
No, not painted, he realized. It had been erased. Scrubbed clean of pictures and color, scrubbed clear of every detail.
And then the thing was crashing, squeezing down the hall, coming for him. Plaster tore and pictures cracked.
Aiden threw open the front door, hoping to find a car, something to put more distance between himself and that clattering, chattering horror. The front yard was a void, a sea of white beneath ashen clouds. There was no gate, no fence, no mountains or trees. There was only a vast white world scrubbed of color that receded into a thousand miles of emptiness.
Erased, all of it. He had only a moment
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