Bits & Pieces by Jonathan Maberry

point.
    Hannahlily was grateful.
    Hannahlily was also mildly annoyed.
    Didn’t he like her?
    Didn’t he love her?
    What was wrong with him?
    What was—?
    There was a sound.
    And they both froze.
    â€œWhat was that?” she said, her voice thin and breathless.
    He raised his head and listened. “What was what?”
    â€œI heard something.”
    She saw the brightness of his smile in the firelight. “The whole place sounds like it’s about to fall down.”
    They listened. The wind was a banshee shriek. The bones of the old house creaked and complained. Water dripped somewhere inside.
    â€œIt’s just the storm,” he said.
    â€œNo, I heard something.”
    â€œHey,”he said gently, brushing hair from her face with a gentle sweep of his fingers, “it’s okay. We’re good here. It’s just the—”
    He stopped.
    She didn’t have to ask why.
    They both heard it.
    It wasn’t the creak of old timbers. It wasn’t the banging of loose shutters or the rattle of glass in loose panes.
    It was a different kind of sound. The kind of sound houses don’t make unless they’re haunted houses in horror movies.
    It was a human sound.
    A moan.
    Low, but not sneaky.
    No, whatever made that sound was not some imp trying to hide. This wasn’t a poltergeist. This was something else.
    An empty sound. Mostly empty. Not a voice calling out. Nothing like that. This wasn’t someone trying to warn the lovers that someone was about to enter their firelit nest.
    No.
    This was a moan.
    And in its near emptiness it was directed in no particular direction. Yet it filled the house with meaning.
    Without words, without articulation, it spoke of a need greater than anything Hannahlily had ever felt. Greater than Tucker felt. Greater than the need that had brought them here. More insistent than the needs that locked them together in their secret and private darkness.
    It was a hungry moan.
    And it came from the other side of the kitchen door.

4
The Bride
    There was a muscular pickup truck parked by the back door, and the downstairs front windows of the old house glowed with the golden light of a fireplace. The bride did not even glance at it as she approached the house and went to the back door. A dozen others followed her from the wedding along with six more who had begun walking with her along the rain-swept roads. Strangers, but now part of something.
    A family?
    A horde?
    A swarm?
    The bride did not know which word fit. Maybe there was no word in the dictionary that explained this.
    Her hand reached out to turn the doorknob, but it was a clumsy motion, and even as she did it, the woman inside could feel herself drifting backward from the action as if the one had nothing to do with the other. A reflex action, but not any choice of hers.
    The kitchen door opened and her body went inside, taking her consciousness with it. As if whatever was about to happen in the old house required a witness.
    The kitchen was dark, but light came from under the door. Warm light that moved and flowed. Firelight, not lamplight.
    The body—the bride no longer considered it hers—stopped for a moment as if confused by this light. Or by the second door. Whatever reflex had allowed it to turn onedoorknob was already fading, as if there were only a little rational thought or motor memory left and it was already draining away. Besides, there was no knob here. Only the flat wood and decorative trim of the door.
    As wind blew in from the open doorway to the outside, it brushed against the inner door and made it sway. As if the door wanted to open and was trembling with anticipation.
    The bride moved forward as the other wedding guests and the roadside strangers crowded in behind her. They milled, pushing forward. Pushing her forward.
    Beyond the door there were voices.
    Two.
    Male and female. Young. Whispering.
    â€œIt’s okay,” said a boy’s voice. “We’re