stirred in the houses along the street. The whole world had a hangover.
Dexter went down the trail. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he wanted to relive the day before, the struggle, the tears, the drops of blood. Maybe he wanted to get the shoe.
Water fell off the green leaves overhead as he wound his way into the woods. His shirt was soaked by the time he reached the clearing. The forest was alive with dripping, flexing limbs, trees drinking and growing, the creek fat and muddy. A fungal, earthy stench hung in the air. He stepped into the clearing.
The ground was scarred with gashes of upturned soil. Brown holes. Empty. Where Dexter had buried the pets.
Blood sacrifice. Works like magic. Especially on Halloween.
Dexter tried to breathe. The shivering in his belly turned into a wooden knot.
Twigs snapped damply behind the stand of laurels where he had hid the day before.
No. Dead things didn’t come back to life. That only happened in stupid movies.
Tammy Lynn’s shoe was gone. No way would she come back here. It had to be Riley, playing a trick. But how did Riley know where he had buried the animals?
He heard a whimpering gargle that sounded like a cross between a cluck and a growl, maybe a broken meow. The laurels shimmered. Something was moving in there.
“Riley?” he whispered hoarsely.
The gargle.
“Come on out, dickwit,” he said, louder.
He saw a flash of fur, streaked and caked with dirt. He fled down the trail. His boots hardly touched the ground, were afraid to touch the ground, the ground that had been poisoned with blood magic. He thought he heard something following as he crossed into the yard, soft padding footfalls or slitherings in the brush, but his heart was hammering so hard in his ears that he couldn’t be sure. He burst into the house and locked the door, then leaned with his back against it until he caught his breath.
Something thudded onto the porch, clattering along the wooden boards. Behind that sharp sound, a rattling like claws or thick toenails, came a dragging wet noise.
Clickety-click, sloosh. Clickety-click, sloosh.
It stopped just outside the door.
Dexter couldn’t move.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Mom stood under the archway leading into the kitchen. Her face was pinched, eyes distended, skin splotched. Greasy blades of hair clung to her forehead.
Dexter gasped, swallowed. “The—”
She scowled at him, her fists clenched. He knew this had better be good. “— I was just out running.”
“You’re going to be the death of me, worrying me like that. Nothing but trouble.” She rubbed her temples. Her smell filled the small room, sweetly pungent like a bushel of decaying fruit. Dexter put his ear to the door. The sounds were gone.
“What are you so pale for? You said you wasn’t sick.”
Dexter shrank away from her.
“Now get up off that floor. Lord knows, I got enough work around here already without putting you in three changes of clothes ever goddamned day.”
Dexter slunk past her into the living room.
“Guess I’d better get that laundry in,” Mom said to no one in particular. Her hand gripped the doorknob, and Dexter wanted to shout, scream, slap her away. But of course he couldn’t. He could only watch with churning bowels as she opened the door and went outside. Dexter followed her as far as the screen door.
The porch was empty.
Of course it was. Monsters were for movies, or dumb stories. He was acting like a fourth grader. Stuff coming back from the dead? Horseshit, as Dad would say.
Still, he didn’t go outside the rest of the evening, even though the sky cleared. Mom was in a better mood after the first six-pack. Dexter watched cartoons, then played video games for a while. He tried not to listen for clickety-sloosh.
One of Mom’s boyfriends came over. It was the one with the raggedy mustache, the one who called Dexter “Little Man.” Mom and the man disappeared into her bedroom, then Dexter heard arguing and glass breaking.
Dexter went down the trail. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he wanted to relive the day before, the struggle, the tears, the drops of blood. Maybe he wanted to get the shoe.
Water fell off the green leaves overhead as he wound his way into the woods. His shirt was soaked by the time he reached the clearing. The forest was alive with dripping, flexing limbs, trees drinking and growing, the creek fat and muddy. A fungal, earthy stench hung in the air. He stepped into the clearing.
The ground was scarred with gashes of upturned soil. Brown holes. Empty. Where Dexter had buried the pets.
Blood sacrifice. Works like magic. Especially on Halloween.
Dexter tried to breathe. The shivering in his belly turned into a wooden knot.
Twigs snapped damply behind the stand of laurels where he had hid the day before.
No. Dead things didn’t come back to life. That only happened in stupid movies.
Tammy Lynn’s shoe was gone. No way would she come back here. It had to be Riley, playing a trick. But how did Riley know where he had buried the animals?
He heard a whimpering gargle that sounded like a cross between a cluck and a growl, maybe a broken meow. The laurels shimmered. Something was moving in there.
“Riley?” he whispered hoarsely.
The gargle.
“Come on out, dickwit,” he said, louder.
He saw a flash of fur, streaked and caked with dirt. He fled down the trail. His boots hardly touched the ground, were afraid to touch the ground, the ground that had been poisoned with blood magic. He thought he heard something following as he crossed into the yard, soft padding footfalls or slitherings in the brush, but his heart was hammering so hard in his ears that he couldn’t be sure. He burst into the house and locked the door, then leaned with his back against it until he caught his breath.
Something thudded onto the porch, clattering along the wooden boards. Behind that sharp sound, a rattling like claws or thick toenails, came a dragging wet noise.
Clickety-click, sloosh. Clickety-click, sloosh.
It stopped just outside the door.
Dexter couldn’t move.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Mom stood under the archway leading into the kitchen. Her face was pinched, eyes distended, skin splotched. Greasy blades of hair clung to her forehead.
Dexter gasped, swallowed. “The—”
She scowled at him, her fists clenched. He knew this had better be good. “— I was just out running.”
“You’re going to be the death of me, worrying me like that. Nothing but trouble.” She rubbed her temples. Her smell filled the small room, sweetly pungent like a bushel of decaying fruit. Dexter put his ear to the door. The sounds were gone.
“What are you so pale for? You said you wasn’t sick.”
Dexter shrank away from her.
“Now get up off that floor. Lord knows, I got enough work around here already without putting you in three changes of clothes ever goddamned day.”
Dexter slunk past her into the living room.
“Guess I’d better get that laundry in,” Mom said to no one in particular. Her hand gripped the doorknob, and Dexter wanted to shout, scream, slap her away. But of course he couldn’t. He could only watch with churning bowels as she opened the door and went outside. Dexter followed her as far as the screen door.
The porch was empty.
Of course it was. Monsters were for movies, or dumb stories. He was acting like a fourth grader. Stuff coming back from the dead? Horseshit, as Dad would say.
Still, he didn’t go outside the rest of the evening, even though the sky cleared. Mom was in a better mood after the first six-pack. Dexter watched cartoons, then played video games for a while. He tried not to listen for clickety-sloosh.
One of Mom’s boyfriends came over. It was the one with the raggedy mustache, the one who called Dexter “Little Man.” Mom and the man disappeared into her bedroom, then Dexter heard arguing and glass breaking.
Similar Books
