figure out what the hell was chasing him.
“I’m still here.”
I snarled, then smacked a lamp off a table.
Vincent screamed, stepped backwards.
I moved in closer, looking at his body, wondering where I could strike that would do the most damage.
“Go outside. Call to your neighbors for help. Tell them to send the police. Tell them the Devil has come for you.”
Vincent stumbled backwards until he bumped into his living room wall. He was panting. Shaking his head.
And then he reached over and flicked on the living room lights.
I threw my right arm up in the air. For a moment I must have looked like one of the scenes from 1950s movies about people caught in the flash of an H-bomb explosion. As if a forearm and bicep can hold back sheer atomic hell? I didn’t black out, but I think I stopped recording conscious memories, because the next thing I knew I was huddled beneath a coffee table. Vincent was taunting me:
“Devil don’t like the light, does he?”
My right arm was paralyzed by agony. Physical pain is one thing. As bad as it gets—like, say, torture room bad—you can always go into shock and retreat inside yourself. For whatever reason, this felt like soul pain …pain you couldn’t hide from, ever. So long as your soul exists.
I couldn’t take it anymore so I darted for the only available darkness—the kitchen. Then under the table. Sliding across the linoleum. Shaking badly. Ready to throw up and pass out.
“I’ll give you light, Devil!”
Another click. More light, all around me. Where the hell was I? Right. Kitchen. There was cool linoleum beneath my fingers—the remaining fingers of my left hand, that is. I didn’t know where my right hand was.
Two brown work boots appeared in front of me. The table above me began sliding to the left. Then two table legs lifted up from the floor. The shadow line raced toward me. And with it, a wave of murderous light. It was endgame time.
So I charged at the son of a bitch with all of my remaining strength.
Momentum propelled me forward, forward, forward. There was a crashing sound and I felt like I’d tumbled into a Black & Decker food processor. Skin, shredded; bones, ground to dust. Nerves, sliced open and prodded with hot needles.
But somehow I was still alive.
And in the cool, soothing darkness of night once again.
Dennis Michael Vincent lay next to me, gurgling, on the concrete path on the side of his house. We had gone through the kitchen window, and now pieces of glass were sticking out of his neck and forearms. Blood squirted from the right side of his throat in small, urgent beats. He moaned. Cursed the devil with the little bit of voice he had left.
There was a burst of yellow light to my right. The sound of a wooden door creaking open. A neighbor.
I crawled backwards until I felt a metal chain-link fence behind me. I tried to use it to stand up, but something weird was happening. I couldn’t seem to grab hold of anything. I heard a noise, then looked back at the house.
Patty Glenhart was standing on the back porch. She saw me. I guess only kids and psychos could see ghosts.
She screamed and turned and ran back into the house.
I glanced down at my right shoulder. My arm was completely gone.
The neighbors next door were calling out. Is everybody okay? Does anyone need help?
Meanwhile, Dennis Michael Vincent choked on his own blood.
I tried to forget my missing arm and used the three fingers on my left hand to pull myself up the fence until I was standing. Then I staggered along the side of the house, completely thrown off-balance. I turned right and walked a block, trying to make it to Frankford Avenue before I passed out.
When I woke up Meghan was staring at me. She had a cell phone in her hand and a panicked expression on her face. I was on the floor, wrapped in Grandpop’s overcoat, his fedora still on my head.
“Christ, Mickey—are you awake?”
“Oh God.”
I groaned, then rolled over on my side,
“I’m still here.”
I snarled, then smacked a lamp off a table.
Vincent screamed, stepped backwards.
I moved in closer, looking at his body, wondering where I could strike that would do the most damage.
“Go outside. Call to your neighbors for help. Tell them to send the police. Tell them the Devil has come for you.”
Vincent stumbled backwards until he bumped into his living room wall. He was panting. Shaking his head.
And then he reached over and flicked on the living room lights.
I threw my right arm up in the air. For a moment I must have looked like one of the scenes from 1950s movies about people caught in the flash of an H-bomb explosion. As if a forearm and bicep can hold back sheer atomic hell? I didn’t black out, but I think I stopped recording conscious memories, because the next thing I knew I was huddled beneath a coffee table. Vincent was taunting me:
“Devil don’t like the light, does he?”
My right arm was paralyzed by agony. Physical pain is one thing. As bad as it gets—like, say, torture room bad—you can always go into shock and retreat inside yourself. For whatever reason, this felt like soul pain …pain you couldn’t hide from, ever. So long as your soul exists.
I couldn’t take it anymore so I darted for the only available darkness—the kitchen. Then under the table. Sliding across the linoleum. Shaking badly. Ready to throw up and pass out.
“I’ll give you light, Devil!”
Another click. More light, all around me. Where the hell was I? Right. Kitchen. There was cool linoleum beneath my fingers—the remaining fingers of my left hand, that is. I didn’t know where my right hand was.
Two brown work boots appeared in front of me. The table above me began sliding to the left. Then two table legs lifted up from the floor. The shadow line raced toward me. And with it, a wave of murderous light. It was endgame time.
So I charged at the son of a bitch with all of my remaining strength.
Momentum propelled me forward, forward, forward. There was a crashing sound and I felt like I’d tumbled into a Black & Decker food processor. Skin, shredded; bones, ground to dust. Nerves, sliced open and prodded with hot needles.
But somehow I was still alive.
And in the cool, soothing darkness of night once again.
Dennis Michael Vincent lay next to me, gurgling, on the concrete path on the side of his house. We had gone through the kitchen window, and now pieces of glass were sticking out of his neck and forearms. Blood squirted from the right side of his throat in small, urgent beats. He moaned. Cursed the devil with the little bit of voice he had left.
There was a burst of yellow light to my right. The sound of a wooden door creaking open. A neighbor.
I crawled backwards until I felt a metal chain-link fence behind me. I tried to use it to stand up, but something weird was happening. I couldn’t seem to grab hold of anything. I heard a noise, then looked back at the house.
Patty Glenhart was standing on the back porch. She saw me. I guess only kids and psychos could see ghosts.
She screamed and turned and ran back into the house.
I glanced down at my right shoulder. My arm was completely gone.
The neighbors next door were calling out. Is everybody okay? Does anyone need help?
Meanwhile, Dennis Michael Vincent choked on his own blood.
I tried to forget my missing arm and used the three fingers on my left hand to pull myself up the fence until I was standing. Then I staggered along the side of the house, completely thrown off-balance. I turned right and walked a block, trying to make it to Frankford Avenue before I passed out.
When I woke up Meghan was staring at me. She had a cell phone in her hand and a panicked expression on her face. I was on the floor, wrapped in Grandpop’s overcoat, his fedora still on my head.
“Christ, Mickey—are you awake?”
“Oh God.”
I groaned, then rolled over on my side,
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